


Cry for a Shadow

by Puke_Silver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Bombing, Bondage, Branding, Collars, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fire, Flashbacks, Forced Orgasm, Graphic Description, Guns, Kidnapping, M/M, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Razors, Sexual Violence, Shaving, Sleep Deprivation, Smoking, Stitches, Suspense, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8524393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puke_Silver/pseuds/Puke_Silver
Summary: Jon Snow's domestic comfort is shaken when Ramsay Bolton arrives on scene. In sum, Ramsay kidnaps Jon.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from my other fic for a hot second. 
> 
> While this first chapter is mostly domestic Jon/Ygritte fluff (where I spend most of my reality), I have a lot of emotions right now and this is about to get all sorts of kink dark.
> 
> CW for non-con, violence, rape, assault, language, forced situations, bondage, and other problematic content to come. Sorry, Jon.
> 
> Please let me know if I've left out any warning tags or tagged anything improperly.

Jon took a deep breath, opening his eyes to the sensation of Ygritte circling her finger around the flat of his nipple—her skin catching pale in the light, which streamed through the chalky glass of the sky window above.

The morning was early; the bedroom filled with dawn’s diffused pinks and indifferent potential. Jon turned his neck, lolling his head along the pillow and looking towards Ygritte before offering up his best rendition of a wink in greeting—his face seeming to collapse in on itself with the effort, both eyes clutching briefly above the warm flash of teeth. 

And he supposed it should have come as no shock when, following a flicker of surprise, Ygritte simply snorted in response, promptly burying her face in the plump of her pillow to muffle the heat of her laughter.

Jon’s dark brows cinched as he cocked himself up on an elbow in waiting—lopsided grin tugging at the edges of his mouth as though amusedly anticipating the inevitable harassment he was about to endure.

“What?” he chuckled, curiosity and reluctance warring in the trough of his throat as they so often did.

And seemingly sated by her private mirth, Ygritte shifted then, reaching out and smoothing her thumb along the coarse hair of Jon’s jawline—twisting its wires between the pads of her fingers as she ran the rose of her tongue across the flat of her teeth. 

Her voice was hoarse and warm when she finally spoke—confident in its own appraisal. “Ya couldn’t wink ta save yer life, Jon Snow.”

Jon huffed a laugh at his expense—shoulders rising and falling with the pithy flutter of his begrudging beguilement—before rolling over atop Ygritte, trapping her beneath his weight with an air of amused possession. “Oh, is that so?” He challenged.

“Aye, ‘tis.”

Their game was simple—one played with greedy contest and ardent stubbornness, culminating invariably in eager concession on Jon’s part, his predictable submission ever lusty and contentious in its own right.

Ygritte let out a hum as Jon settled above her, biting down on her lip as she slipped her hands to the waistband of his trunks, where she began to trace the elastic with slow, teasing strokes of her fingertips. 

And easily stirred, the muscles of Jon’s belly immediately clenched in response, flat and fluttering, with the fever of his brewing anticipation.

For a time, Ygritte flitted her fingers lightly across the material in such a way. But eventually, on the cusp of one of Jon’s particularly shaky exhales, she dipped her hand lower, cupping his swelling bulge and beginning to work him through the fabric. 

Enduring reticence fraying; at odds with restless impatience, Jon ducked his head, watching Ygritte’s ministrations for as long as he could stand—breath hitching in his throat. But of course, it wasn’t too long before the urge to touch— _to taste, to lick, to fuck_ —clouded his every sense, and Jon soon dragged his gaze once more to Ygritte’s face, his eyes wide and dark as he looked upon the landscape of her flushing features.

With darting focus, Jon followed the line of her nose, the slant of her brows, and the bow of her lips. He soaked up the sight of each freckle floating softly on the surface of her skin, traversing the planes of her face and the swell of her cheekbones as heat coiled thickly in his gut.

And when he simply couldn’t take it any more, Jon took Ygritte’s face gently in hand, and leaned down to kiss her. His kiss was tame at first—tender in its survey. But Ygritte shortly responded with the same impassioned intensity Jon so loved about her, and long, slow drags soon gave way to delving tongues and clipping teeth. 

Jon pulled back after a time, face flushed and skin warm as he scooted lower, running his hands along the cream of her oversized t-shirt, lifting the material and pressing his kisses to the base of her ribcage, the jut of her hipbone, the dip of her navel. With measured composure, Jon then began to tug at her panties—the thin cotton giving way easily enough—sliding down her legs and off her ankles in one, smooth movement.

And with Ygritte now bare before him, Jon settled into place, but not before flicking his eyes up to her, nodding curtly as a smirk pricked at the corners of his mouth—preemptively smug at the inevitability of her rapture on his tongue.

Pushing forward then, Jon began his chase—licking and lapping and sucking, driving up her pleasure while simultaneously drawing it out. Ygritte writhed beneath his attentions; hoarse whimpers slipping through her lips as Jon worked.

_Gods._

Her taste was overwhelming—all encompassing and warm—sweet and tart all at the same time. It was a taste Jon couldn’t get enough of, guiding his touch and spurring his purpose.

And when Ygritte did come, she came with a soft cry and a boneless tremble. Once she had calmed, Jon pushed himself up, wiping his mouth on the back of a hand before dropping down to Ygritte’s side, pressing himself against her as he began to kiss tenderly along the line of her jaw.

After a moment, Ygritte turned to face him, sliding her hand beneath his shorts as she went to straddle him. She tugged once, twice, and Jon’s eyes might have rolled back in his head had it not been for the ferocity of her pause.

“Fuck!” she hissed, scrambling off him.

Jon snapped his eyes open, alarmed and aroused in pained combination. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m late!” she answered, jumping off the bed and heading quickly towards the wrought iron ladder, which connected the loft to the rest of their small flat.

Jon turned, looking to the clock on the wooden nightstand—its numbers glowing and red.

_8:36._

Her shift at the non-profit began six minutes ago. 

_Seven hells._

Jon sat up, scrubbing his face in his hands as he sighed—his blood still heated, pulse thrumming between his legs. He could hear Ghost whining from below; closet door and dresser drawers slamming as Ygritte stormed through the house.

Jon grunted then and looked down, annoyed at the sight of his still very present erection. The fabric of his trunks had warped in shape—stretched and rising like some bizarre, greyed topography. And following a brief roll of his eyes, Jon adjusted himself and got up from the bed, tugging at the legs of his shorts before heading over to the loft’s edge.

He met Ygritte in the kitchen, Ghost hot on his heels; the great white dog’s nails clicking on the varnished concrete of the floor. Ygritte was stood at the refrigerator, dressed in a pair of sleek black leggings topped with a green blazer—her hair still as wild as it had been just minutes ago. For his part, Jon thought she looked lovely, (if not slightly disheveled in her attempts at professionalism).

“How will it be today?” Jon asked; sniffing the crust of a turkey sandwich, which had been resting abandoned on the counter. It didn’t seem dangerous, so Jon tossed it to Ghost and wiped the crumbs away with a brush of his hand.

Ygritte scoffed, swigging some orange juice from its cardboard carton before answering. “Tormund and Styr ‘ave been buttin’ heads… But I’ll show ‘em what’s what,” she grinned confidently; capping the juice and placing it back in the fridge.

Three years ago, Ygritte had started working with community organizers (a job she acquired through her connections with Tormund—the man who had raised her). And while she had initially been only a receptionist, her enthusiasm had not gone unnoticed by the higher-ups. 

She was told that with some study and determination, she could feasibly become more directly involved with the work of the non-profit. And never one to turn down a challenge, Ygritte had hit the books, working her way through night classes, and eventually gaining her credentials. So, as it was now, she worked hands-on, focusing primarily on helping those north of The Wall (where she herself was from) gain asylum—fighting for what she believed in. 

Her work was undisciplined, but passionate, and Jon thought that with the right regulation, the organization might really make a difference. At the end of the day, he was proud to stand by her.

Jon smiled as Ygritte closed in for a hug, pecking a kiss and stalling briefly as she registered his unspent excitement digging into her hip. She looked down.

“Sorry ‘bout that—I’ll make it up ta ya later.” She winked (properly, she might say). “I promise.”

Jon shrugged as his smile widened, watching Ygritte kick furiously at the rusted kickstand of her bicycle before wheeling it to the door. She patted Ghost on the head and offered up a final wave to Jon.

And with that, the door slammed, leaving Jon alone in the apartment.

He started his day by putting on a pot of coffee, getting dressed, taking Ghost outside (after having a long pee himself), and making the bed—sighing once more at the sight of ruffled sheets and discarded clothes.

Days off were always strange for Jon, and while he usually had trouble knowing what to do with himself, (that is, without Fire Chief Thorne getting on his case about cleaning station equipment or polishing boots), today was different—today Jon had a plan.

He and Ygritte had been seeing each other for about three years now—since just around the time Ygritte had become involved in her work. Their relationship had started off wild and impetuous, culminating once in a brief break following a fight over Jon’s late hours and Ygritte’s less-than peaceful political protests. But they had of course reconnected, and their love had only grown stronger with time—more solid. As it was now, Jon couldn’t imagine his life without her.

And it was for this very reason that tonight, he planned to propose.

But first, the flat needed cleaning—and a thorough one at that. Grimy shoes and threadbare jumpers littered their charity shop rugs, covering the ornate designs completely. Half-empty mugs and glasses were scattered—standing proud in their numbers, as though defending the countertops from the roaches likely to arrive at any moment. Meanwhile, a thin layer of dust had settled on most other surfaces—tabletop and picture frames alike.

Before Ygritte, Jon’s flat had been fairly tidy—perhaps his clothes weren’t always tucked away and there was oft an empty pizza box resting on the top of the bin, but for the most part, it was presentable.

Things were different now. For Ygritte herself was like the surge of flames—wild and unpredictable, leaving nothing untouched in her path. Jon chuckled to himself at the comparison, as even on his day off, here he was, still chasing after the heat of chaos. 

All the same, diligently, Jon picked up, collecting the various dishes strewn around the house before throwing them in the sink, bowls and plates now towering precariously over piles of knives and forks. Jon washed and dried, humming along quietly in time with the record spinning on his turntable.

When the dishes were put away, he scrubbed the counter and dusted the living room, vacuumed the rugs and even straightened the couch pillows.

It occurred to Jon then that he might only be cleaning so furiously as a means of distraction—to keep his nerves in check. For while he expected Ygritte would say yes to his later proposal, he still wasn’t entirely sure.

To be honest, they’d not discussed the matter much—both parties seemingly content to carry on as things were. In the past, they’d talked over the idea of marriage, and even the idea of children (neither one of them opposed), though never had they reached any formal conclusions.

For his part, Jon was want for the tradition of family—wanted the structure and the warmth he’d so longed for as a child. And while his Uncle Ned had indeed raised him lovingly, Jon had always felt like somewhat of an outsider—always swallowed his pain when Catelyn Stark insist he call her _Aunt Cat_ instead of _mother_.

He only hoped Ygritte would understand, and while Jon highly anticipated a caustic remark at the sight of him down on one knee, he expected, deep down, that Ygritte wanted this too—that she would do this for him.

_For us._

After all, he loved her, and she loved him.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Jon downed another cup of coffee and turned his attentions to the bathroom.

Pulling the shower curtain back, he surveyed the scene—a bit of mold and grime clouded the ceramic, but that was nothing compared to the sheer number of long red hairs spread across the shower wall and piling up in the drain.

_How long has it been like this?_

With a smirk, Jon grabbed his phone and snapped a photo of the mess, sending it to Ygritte with the caption: _you’re a savage._

Three dots popped up on the bottom of the screen and Jon waited—his phone vibrating in his palm as the words, _you like it_ , flashed across his screen. His grin widened. 

He dropped his cell and carried on then, scrubbing the tub and emptying the drain. Jon then wiped down the mirror and the toilet, before vacuuming the mat covering the tile floor.

When this was finished, Jon climbed the ladder and started in on the loft. The space was small—closed in by three red, brick walls—and offering little room for more than the mattress and two shallow nightstands. As such, it didn’t need much cleaning.

But Jon had something else in mind. He knelt on the bed then, leaning over to root through the drawer of Ygritte’s table, pulling out five half-used tea candles and splitting them—setting a few on each nightstand.

But when he stepped back, he was disappointed—the attempts at romanticism looking rather slight.

_No matter._

Jon had to go out anyway—he had groceries to pick up and flowers to purchase. Buying some more candles wouldn’t take too much time. 

He swept the contents back into the drawer and climbed once more down the ladder, shedding his clothes and stepping in the shower. He cleaned himself quickly, foregoing shampoo and using whatever variety of mint bath-gel he and Ygritte shared to lather his body.

When he was done, Jon toweled himself dry and redressed, pulling on a pair of tight, black jeans and a light blue shirt, which he tucked into his belt—opting to leave the top button undone. 

He reached under the mattress then, diving his hand into the ripped seam from below and pulling a small, black box from its depths. He flipped open its top, revealing a slim, silver band adorned with a modest, square-cut ruby. The ring had cost him three-months pay, a fact, which he would take to his grave, lest he insight Ygritte’s scoffing fury. But he felt it was worth it, and taking a deep breath, Jon pocketed the box, wanting it close to his person, as though its near presence might stoke his courage.

He grabbed his Marlboros and wallet from his bedside table then, fastened his Seamaster watch (one of the few things he had of his father’s), tied up his hair, and set off.

***

Autumn was just now coming to an end, and Jon pulled his coat tighter around himself, shrugging into its black collar so as to protect his bare neck from the harsh wind.

He had just finished up his errands, multiple bags heavy in hand. He looked silly, and was surely a bit overburdened, but he’d needed it all, he reasoned—the spaghetti and tomatoes, the French loaf, the greens, the bottle of malbec, and the candles. 

_Tonight is important._

He took a drag on his cigarette and fumbled with the flowers in his other hand—blue winter roses. Ned Stark had told him once that they were Lyanna’s favorite. 

Not a day went by when Jon didn’t wish he’d had the chance to know the woman who birthed him—the woman who gave her life for his. She’d always been described as fierce and steadfast—brave and bold. With this in mind, Jon thought she would have liked Ygritte, and he hoped his mother would be proud of who he was now.

He had thought of his mother often in his youth—dreamed of her even. 

When Jon turned ten, Ned had passed along several polaroids of Lyanna, quickly becoming Jon’s most treasured possessions. In all the photos she was smiling or laughing—all but one. This one was Jon’s favorite. In the photograph, his mother sat alone on a couch—her blouse dark and her eyes kind. She stared at the camera, as though imploring the viewer to _see_ her—resonating a quiet strength as her fingers caressed the pages of a book, which rested in her lap. Jon had always wondered what she was reading on that day—what she had felt and what she had thought. When he closed his eyes now, he could still see the photo—still see the faded green of the couch cushions, the curls of her hair, and the slight swell of her pregnant belly. _Had she loved me even then?_ Jon would wonder.

In general, Jon had always thought more of his mother than he did of his father—a politician murdered just before Jon was born—a man whose name was riddled with scandals and about whom Jon knew little.

Over the years, he’d considered reaching out to the Targaryens once or twice, but as time stretched on and they’d not sought to contact Jon themselves, his bitterness had grown, and he had dropped the idea—firmly Stark in his familial allegiances.

But that was neither here or now, and as it was in the moment, lost in thought on the streets, Jon didn’t notice when a man stepped out of the parking garage to block his path. 

They collided, the force of the impact crushing the roses against Jon’s chest—stems twisting and petals falling to the ground to join the cigarette, which had slipped through Jon’s lips from the crash.

Despite the jostle, Jon maintained his balance, confused and startled as he looked up to meet the stranger’s gaze.

The man chuckled gaudily—his laughter almost born from mirth rather than embarrassment. “Sorry, sorry,” he said—his words oily in their urgency—a wide smile stretching beneath a pair of startlingly blue eyes. His apparent merriment caught Jon nearly as off guard as the entirety of the ordeal, but Jon swallowed his unease nonetheless.

The stranger reached out then. “Your flowers,” he pointed, his brow furrowing—pretense one of sympathy as both men stared at the gnarled roses. “Allow me to buy you some new ones!” He suggested clapping his hands together, as though the idea were something Jon should be equally as excited about.

Sighing, Jon shifted his bags, assessing the flowers’ damage. It wasn’t great, but he didn’t have the time to return to the florist—Ygritte would be home in an hour and Jon had yet to cook their meal. “Thanks—it’s alright,” Jon said wearily. “I’ve not got the time.”

“Well let me help you with your bags at least—I feel awful,” the man smiled, his laughter clipped and awkward in its seeming genuineness.

“Er… Cheers,” Jon answered after an unsettled beat. For despite his discomfort, Jon thought not to deny the man, if only for fear he would further insist. Besides, Jon’s car was only just there—in the garage.

“Excellent!”

Jon passed him a bag and then bent down, picking up his cigarette from the ground with his newly freed hand, and plucking it back between his lips.

Jon gestured towards the direction of his car then, and both men set off, walking in silence.

“That’s bad for you, you know,” the man observed after a moment, spreading two fingers into a V-shape and drawing them to his mouth to mime the act of smoking, as though to drive home the meaning of his words behind the barred teeth of his arrogant grin.

Irritated, Jon blew a stream of smoke from his nostrils. “So I’ve been told,” he laughed curtly.

“Are your flowers for some one special?”

Jon nodded, giving up no further information, but feeling the weight of the ring in his pocket all the same.

“Right, here,” Jon said once they’d reached their destination, kicking the rusted tire of his small, black car. He popped the trunk then, placing his bags in its bed and returning again to the man—reaching out to take the final sack. “Thanks.”

The man cocked his head, smiling. “You’re most welcome.”

Jon took the goods and smiled best he could, before turning and throwing the bag alongside the others. He slammed the trunk shut with a grunt and went to pull open the driver’s door, pausing as the stranger called out once more.

“Oh! One more thing,” the man said, as though berating himself for not having thought of his words sooner. “I just have to ask: do you believe in happy endings?”

Jon stilled, throat tightening. “What?”

To this, the stranger merely laughed, dramatically displaying his false surprise at Jon’s confusion. “It’s a simple question, Jon Snow,” he reiterated, hands turned up.

Jon’s blood ran cold, his mouth drying. “How did—“

But the words caught in his throat unspoken, a sudden blow striking to the back of Jon’s head—his vision blacking out and his knees buckling as he dropped to the ground, unconscious.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic descriptions of violence

Jon opened his eyes with a gasp, hurtling from the empty depths of unconsciousness and back into his body with startling force.

The first thing he registered was the pain—the pounding ache, which radiated from where his head met the wall, the cold stones supporting its weight. But with clouded awareness slowly sharpening, Jon soon felt the tightness in his shoulders and the cracking of dried fluid, cold and matted in his hair.

Panicked confusion quickly set in, and eyes darting, Jon began to take stock of his pain, scanning his attention across his body. His head spun as his eyes focused, attention zeroing in on the tip of his shirt that had come untucked, a thick smear of red coating the light fabric.

_Blood._

Startled, Jon moved to reach forward—to rub the bloodstain between his fingers, as though to better understand its presence through touch. But his movement was halted, cold metal manacles keeping his hands firmly in their place—chained together behind his back.

As this truth registered, Jon twisted his body sharply, looking to see the cuffs for himself. 

Sure enough, there they were—stark and metallic against the soft of his pale skin. And yet further distressing, Jon then noticed that the chain links, which connected each cuff, had been run through a small, metal loop sticking out from the wall, so as, Jon understood, to keep him fully immobile.

Jon grunted in agitated anguish at the realization, before bending forwards to pull his weight against the ring, throwing the full force of his strength into each desperate tug. But his efforts were to no avail, and when Jon abandoned his struggle after several fruitless attempts, he was merely left with sore shoulders and two raw wrists, pink and throbbing in their cuffs.

As the terrifying helplessness of his circumstance’s absoluteness tightened, Jon’s alarm heightened likewise—his breaths quickening in time, each drag of air beginning to catch on the swell of his bottom lip as it was pulled rapidly into his hitching lungs. 

Jon’s thinking felt scattered, his mind skipping vaguely from one hazy thought to the next, like a frog skittering from lily pad to lily pad, but never fully settling in its landing.

His throat was constricting, something Jon soon realized in part, had to do with the thick band of plastic that must have been placed around his neck. Unlike the handcuffs, this collar was not attached to the wall, but rather clasped tightly around his skin—the plastic heavy and invasive, its edges cutting into the jumping tendons of Jon’s throat. Its presence made every swallow ache—the knot of Jon’s Adam’s apple bobbing dully against the protruding, black box fastened to the plastic.

Disbelief at war with fear, Jon sucked in more air, chest heaving with shallow, stuttering breaths—each one more desperate than the next, as he turned to flick his gaze around the room.

There was only one light in the space—one naked bulb, hanging and bare, harsh in its mere existence. It cast the room in one unanimously austere layer of white, the light catching on the ceramic of the sink and toilet stood bleakly against the adjacent wall. 

The room was neither big nor small—its modest space enclosed by four windowless gray walls, their surfaces unadorned, save for the grimy medicine cabinet posted just above the sink, its mirror cloudy and speckled.

To Jon’s growing unease, there was no visible door, and instead one long hallway facing just across from him—so dark, that Jon could see no more than one foot into its retreating depths.

Rooted firmly in alarm, Jon’s eyes were wide and black as he turned his attentions to the pallet resting to his right—a pile of fresh linens folded and stacked at its foot.

_One pillow, one pillowcase, one blanket…_

This thought struck Jon as odd, not just for its clarity in the moment, but also in the starkness of its obviousness—as though someone had set the sheets out knowing that Jon would arrive.

Jon’s brows furrowed as he tried to remember—to understand. He shut his eyes and thought back—memories flashing in brief flickers; Ygritte’s smile, her green blazer, a man’s eyes—pale and manic, broken flowers and fallen petals.

It came to Jon then.

Where Jon’s breaths were clipped and spaced out in the beginning, they were by now fully absorbed in their panic. Now, his whole body trembled with the force of each terrified inhale—small sounds beginning to escape alongside the gasps, scraping from deep within his throat.

He shifted his weight, boots scraping along the concrete floor as he pulled his legs towards himself, folding them against his chest as though subconsciously protecting his body.

_This has to be some kind of mistake._

Suddenly, the light in the hallway flicked on, illuminating the silhouette of the man Jon recognized from the streets. The stranger stepped forward.

“Ah!” He raised his hands in the air, grinning widely. “You’re awake.”

Mouth dry, Jon swallowed thickly before speaking, his voice raspy from its lack of use. “What’s happening? Where am I?”

The man’s brows knitted above a smirk. He began to look around the room then, as though the toilet or floor might offer some validation for his apparent confusion at Jon’s questions—as though the answer were obvious. “You’re _here_. With me.”

The response made Jon’s stomach twist, not for its lack of information, but more so for the merriment with which it was delivered. This man was dangerous, of that Jon was certain—his disquieting obsequiousness during their encounter on the street all the more ominous in hindsight.

Oddly enough, with the man’s arrival, Jon’s panic had slightly subsided—the novelty of this development tangible enough to redirect his clouded emotions towards rising anger.

“Let me go.” Jon said firmly then, straightening himself in an attempt to compensate for the sheerness of his vulnerability—the boldness of the request born purely out of the desperate provocation of his being bound, in the same way a wolf might snap powerlessly at its keeper, hackles raised and snarling as if to prove the strength of its bite all the same.

The man seemed almost offended, if not disappointed, at the request, and his face flashed from affronted to grinning before sobering coldly. “I’m afraid you’re not in a position to make requests, Jon Snow.”

_Jon Snow._

Jon shut his eyes and shook his head tightly, as though to make sense once more of the unexpected use of his name. He looked up again when the man stepped closer, moving to stand over Jon.

“Ooh,” he crooned, gesturing towards the back of Jon’s head. “That looks painful. We should clean it—make sure it doesn’t get _infected_.” His tongue tapped against the roof of his mouth as he uttered the last few syllables—his lips contorting with exaggeration. The man reached out then.

To which Jon immediately jerked back, muscles twitching from the heat of his recoil. “Don’t touch me,” he spat—defiant in his increasing fury, Jon’s fears now more wholly replaced by the indignance of his confusion. He didn’t know yet what games this man was playing, but he surely did not want any part in them.

The man blinked several times before chuckling, seemingly amused by Jon’s reaction. “Well I can’t very well let you bleed out, can I?”

Jon grimaced in response, the throb in his head had only been building, and he could now feel the blood winding down the nape of his neck—thick and sticky. Through the pain, Jon vaguely realized that his hair-tie was missing—dark curls tumbling loose and unruly around his face. 

When Jon didn’t answer, the man spoke again, slowly, as though explaining instructions to a child. “So,” he started, “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to uncuff you, and then I’m going to clean the wound on your head. And here’s what you’re going to do: _behave_. Easy enough?”

Jon’s face darkened, his temper seething as the man knelt down before him, meeting his eyes and nodding, as though in a false display of agreement over Jon’s consent.

The man moved slowly, never touching Jon, but invading his space nonetheless. He unclasped the cuff around Jon’s left wrist first, and in that moment, it took all Jon’s willpower to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing the man by the throat.

_It would be too easy._

But when the second cuff was opened—metallic click sounding coldly in the air—Jon barely had time to accept the weight of his surprise before launching himself at the man in a dire surge of impetuous rage.

Jon slammed into the man at full force, pinning him to the ground and straddling his hips. He cocked his arm then, propelling his fist into the man’s mouth—warm blood bursting through the gaps of his knuckles on impact. And when the man laughed, Jon hit him again. He punched once, twice—three more times before hesitating, stopping himself from relishing in such violence, and turning his attention instead to the urgency of escape.

Kicking off from the ground, Jon bolted for the hallway, sprinting to the door at its end and grabbing hold of the knob. Jon twisted then, only to find the door locked. Angrily, he twisted again, before giving up and ramming his shoulder into the flat of the metal door. And when nothing budged, Jon shouted in frustration—his voice deep and grinding as the panic began to well up once more. Jon had a few more seconds of floundering in the hallway before a thought came to him—calming in the simplicity of its essence.

_A key._

Adrenaline pumping, Jon turned quickly on heel then, running back towards the room in hopes to pick the key off his impounder.

But when Jon reached the end of the hallway, he was met with the site of the man—stood in the center of the room and grinning, blood staining his bared, white teeth. His eyes glistened with unspent mirth, like an animal waiting to devour its prey. It was only then that Jon took notice of the small, black remote clutched tightly in the man’s hand.

Pain abruptly split through his body—centered at his throat and bolting down his limbs—the electricity surging and relentless. Jon fell to his knees then, barely aware that he was screaming—wave after wave of pain crashing inside him as he writhed on the floor. He couldn’t say whether the shock went on for seconds or minutes, only that it remained unbearable in its intensity.

And when the pain finally did subside, ending as suddenly as it had arrived, Jon lay on the ground shaking, his head light and his shirt clinging to his torso—damp and cold from the slick of feverish sweat. Jon’s mouth was now filled with blood, no doubt from biting down on his lip—its taste warm and coppery as it slid across his tongue. This pain was like no other Jon had ever experienced, and it had ultimately left him feeling boneless and shattered.

Hazily, Jon registered the man walking towards him, bending down and staring intently at Jon. But breath heaving, Jon did not have the energy to rebuke the man’s approach, and instead, shut his eyes as he turned his face to the concrete of the floor.

“You’re not very good at following instructions, are you?” The man chuckled.

Jon shifted to face him then, something known in the man’s expression—expected even. He appeared excited and animate—smile stretching widely as he spun the remote idly in his palm, as if its threat were merely amusing. In that moment, it distantly registered to Jon that maybe this man _wanted_ him to react as he had done, if for no other reason than simply to show Jon the true extent of his control. This realization was muddled at best—the pieces largely unclear or missing—but its nebulous significance stirred Jon to his core, only serving in making him angrier.

And so overtaken by the exhaustion of his fury, Jon hocked back and spit then—sending a glob of blood and saliva splattering across the sallow face of the man knelt before him.

The man laughed before darkening, sucking his bottom lip through his teeth as he wiped the fluid from the corner of his eye with an air of impatience.

Jon had but a moment of satisfaction before the collar sparked off again—white-hot pain searing once more through his aching body. 

And when it eventually stopped, Jon was left squirming on the floor, panting and exhausted—coughing frantically, as though to rid his body of all memory of the shock’s relentlessness. He grunted as his arms were jerked roughly behind his back once more—too weak to fight as the metal cuffs were clicked back around his wrists.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man said then, hovering over Jon and smiling. “I told Grunt to keep the voltage reasonable, but it seems he’s as good a listener as he is a talker!” He laughed out loud then; as if his joke were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. But his face fell quickly, noting Jon’s confused disdain and sighing before splitting two fingers, gesturing the snip of scissors. “Had his tongue cut out, you see,” he said, his grin returning as he raised his hands in a forced show of humility. “But _that_ , I’m afraid, I cannot take credit for.”

Jon’s stomach churned as he shut his eyes softly, the full extent of this man’s madness only beginning to set in. In the moment, the darkness of his lids was calming in its overwhelmingness—in its warmth.

But Jon’s brief composure halted abruptly when the man wrenched him up by the crook of an arm, hauling him towards the room’s corner with manic speed.

Body weak, Jon struggled to stand, let alone move at the pace the man was dictating—his body slumping and slipping with every lurching step, until Jon was eventually sat down on the toilet—its seat cold even through the fabric of his jeans.

“Now, Jon Snow,” the man began, opening the medicine cabinet and taking out a washcloth and a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, accompanied by a small clear box, several surgical needles rattling around in its case.

The sight of them made Jon’s skin flush, his head suddenly feeling fainter than it had before.

To Jon’s noticeable shift, the man paused in his direction, seemingly amused. “Oh? Don’t like needles?”

Without meaning to, Jon strangled a low whimper, as if in answer, shifting in the seat and avoiding eye contact.

“Hm.” The man ran the tap then, wetting the cloth before turning towards Jon, his expression one of eager readiness. “Now, bend your head forward.”

Jon clenched his jaw, muscles tightening as he remained immobile—his heartbeat fluttering at the base of his neck, its rigid twitching visible through the pale of his skin. 

But this silent protest was only entertained for five full seconds before the man gripped Jon by the hair—fingers twisting in his open wound as he yanked Jon’s head sharply back, exposing his neck.

Jon shut his eyes tightly, groaning in pain—causing the collar to bounce up and down from the rough force of his swallows.

“I don’t think you fully understand, _bastard_ ,” the man hissed. And despite the pain, Jon’s eyes shot open at the slur, his knee-jerk sensitivity to the word’s usage almost as great as his sinking comprehension that this man knew more than just Jon’s name—but indeed also, that he was a child born out of wed-lock, a reality that had more or less publically remained as hushed as Jon’s oft quiet demeanor. 

_What else must he know?_

Jon, however, did not have time to dwell on this musing, for the man continued in his declaration then, fist tightening around Jon’s curls as he spoke. “When I give an order, you follow it. It’s—“ He chuckled, flipping quickly back to the smarmy nature of his jolly pretense, “it’s really not very complicated.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped when the man finally let go, collapsing back into the swell of his torso with exhausted relief. And with obedience as weary as it was resigned, Jon hung his head then, permitting the man access to his smarting wound.

Jon allowed the man to wash the gash, the water cool and refreshing as it wove its way through Jon’s locks, cleaning the blood from his skin. The peroxide stung, causing Jon to hitch a deep whimper, and while his body had initially remained rigid, braced for the prick of a needle, Jon now sat almost bonelessly, the man’s care alarming in the degree of its delicacy, as though in answer to the wholeness of Jon’s prior torment.

It loosely occurred to Jon then, that the man could just as easily have cleaned the wound while Jon was unconscious, but instead he’d waited—waited for Jon to awaken, as if to make show of such treatment, his touch gentle and patient as he raked his fingers through Jon’s dark hair.

But by this point, Jon was too strung out to fully acknowledge this thought, let alone let it stoke his anger—gnawing despair closing around the edges of his awareness in its place. 

“Well,” the man said abruptly, puling away before clapping his hands together sharply, the sound causing Jon to jump ever so slightly. “No doubt, you’ll be pleased to hear you won’t be needing stitches.”

But Jon barely had the time to feel relief before he was being hauled up again, dragged back to the wall where he had first awoken.

Learned in his helplessness, Jon let himself be guided, sliding dejectedly against the stones, and doing nothing to resist as his manacles were unclasped, looped through the metal ring, and clasped once more—his body completely wrung out.

“Ah,” the man hummed. “There!”

Jon swallowed before looking up to his captor, dark eyes tired and black in their vulnerability. “What do you want?” He asked then, his voice raw and low, his tone one of clawing anguish.

But in answer, the man simply shook his head, chuckling softly. “That’s… not the right question.”

Jon ran his tongue along the bottom swell of his chapped lip, shifting his position but maintaining eye contact regardless. He struggled with his next words, the pride Jon had always held fraying at the direness of his current situation. “My uncle had money,” Jon said then, as though in bargain—for the first time in his adult life, moving to take advantage of Ned Stark’s assets, Jon’s modest flat and rusty car ever testaments to the previous steadfastness of his refusal to accept his late uncle’s wealth. _I’m not a Stark_ , he would say, whenever Robb or Sansa (and at times even Catelyn, her tone always one of angry atonement) pushed the matter, reminding Jon that Ned had left him an equal stake in the will. _Give mine to Bran_ , Jon would always argue then; _his surgeries alone cost a fortune._

But all the same, here Jon sat now, his uncle’s money laid out on the proverbial table. “The Starks—“

But the man cut him off. “I don’t want your uncle’s money.”

“What then—tell me what you want,” Jon begged, thoroughly burned out, his voice rising in its urgency.

The man sighed. “I don’t want anything.”

This answer—this utter lack of content or purpose—only further pushed Jon into his despondency, his next question scraping through his lips in quiet desperation, and driving at the heart of Jon’s confused terror. “Why then? Why are you doing this?”

The man stayed quiet, the silence urging Jon to speak further—to fill the space with more questions, asked out of blind hope that one might be the key to unlocking his captor’s answers. “If it’s about my father or the rest of the Targaryens,” Jon continued, his eyes darting—searching.

Jon had grown up more or less understanding that his mother was different from the one his brothers’ and sisters’ shared—a woman named Lyanna, her name not spoken in the Stark household, but the fierceness of her memory present all the same. Though it was not until Jon was fourteen, that Ned Stark had revealed the identity of Jon’s birth father.

Initially Jon had been furious—angry that Ned had waited so long to tell him, ashamed that his father was a public figure so well known and so well disliked amongst those Jon respected, and devastated that the title of _father_ now tangibly belonged to a man other than the one who had raised Jon with such kindness and honor.

 _Do they know about me? The Targaryens?_ Jon had asked, to which Ned had nodded gently, handing over the watch that had been Rhaegar’s, as though in tribute for the Targaryen’s fourteen years of radio silence. _I don’t want it,_ Jon had spat. But Ned only pressed further, gray eyes shining with sorrow. _Wear it. She would have wanted you to._

And so Jon had—the watch firmly fastened around his wrist every day since, the same one that now rubbed against the steel of his shackles.

The man cut Jon off swiftly, stopping all notions that Jon’s estranged family had anything to do with his current predicament. “I can guarantee you, it’s not,” he said coolly before raising his brows, his face pale as it stretched into a grin—eyes bulging with malice as he uttered an answer so simple, it took Jon several seconds for it to register. “I’m doing this, because I _enjoy_ it.”

The words twisted in Jon’s gut like a knife and he soon felt nausea rising to the base of his throat, tremors gripping his body as silence hung heavily in the air. Jon couldn’t speak then, and even if he could, he wouldn’t have known what to say—the weight of the revelation too heavy to process.

Jon’s breathing sped up again, air cupping frantically in his throat as he sucked it back—his tongue dry and thick in his mouth. He shut his eyes tightly.

“Sleep well, Jon Snow.”

Jon could hear the retreating footsteps, the turn of a lock. And when the door shut, Jon slammed the back of his head against the wall, shouting then in a mixture of surprise and pain as his wound made contact with the stones.

By this point, Jon was so completely battered; he could feel his body beginning to shut down. Part of him wanted to stay awake, to keep going, to do something—anything to defy the current reality. But still, Jon could not fight sleep for much longer, and before long, he was drifting fully into a deep blackness.

***

When he awoke the next morning, it took Jon several moments to realize where he was—the ache in his shoulders planting him firmly in the present, thus shattering all hopes that the past day had been nothing more than a terrible dream.

Jon’s eyes shot open, the room before him the same as it had been when he’d fallen asleep—the oppressive apathy of its cold walls unsettling Jon once more to his core.

As he adjusted, he tried to think on the events of the night prior—what he’d learned and what he hadn’t. For the most part, this new reality felt largely untouchable—all reason suspended, but clear boundaries in place nonetheless; pain the driving force behind a cause and effect that had no greater purpose beyond the fact that this man, Jon’s captor, _enjoys_ it.

The pointlessness was staggering—matched only in its strength by the fervency of Jon’s will despite.

_If I could only get the collar off…_

Swallowing, Jon twisted his neck then, beginning to scrape the plastic of the collar along the wall in hopes it might catch against a groove or knot in the stones, busting the latch or effectively wearing down the material. And though there was no immediate indication to imply the success of such an approach, Jon continued this motion for the better part of an hour, lost soon in the repetitive drive of his determination.

He had almost dozed off again, just when the light in the hallway snapped on, the man emerging from the doorway at its end. He walked towards Jon, a plate and mug held firmly in each hand.

“I’ve brought you breakfast,” he announced with glee, dropping to his haunches before Jon’s feet.

In the mug sloshed some water, three ice cubes clinking in its swell. And it was only then that Jon realized how truly thirsty he was—mouth dry and throat parched.

Meanwhile, in the man’s other hand, on the plate, rested a simple sandwich—one thick slab of cheese stacked between two slices of white bread, their crusts cut off with care—the lines of each edge clean and attentive.

Strangely enough, Jon had never liked the crusts of his sandwiches. But of course, as those things go, that was something only a handful of people close to him knew.

_A coincidence is all._

Jon’s stomach growled audibly at the sight of the sandwich, gurgling traitor that it was.

The man smiled at the sound. “I had thought you might be hungry.” He settled next, crossing his legs and sitting down before Jon, pulling a silver knife and fork from the pocket of his trousers.

The man began to cut the sandwich then, the scrape of metal on ceramic piercing in its delicacy. And when he had separated a small corner, the man softly plucked the piece from the plate and offered it towards Jon’s lips.

Flinching bitterly, Jon scowled—he would _not_ let himself be fed. Instead, he simply stared at the man in response, taking stock of his thin lips, the wide flat of his nose, and the thick, pointed ears, which jutted out from the clean cropping of brown hair. 

“Well go on,” the man prodded.

To which Jon did not respond, glaring coldly back—stubborn in his silence—the refusal small, yet tangible, as Jon clung in the moment to the obstinacy of his pride.

The man lowered his hand then, eyes widening as he grimaced amusedly. “My mistake…” He dropped the plate and picked up the cup instead, speaking again with renewed energy. “Surely though, you’re thirsty!”

Jon said nothing, quashing the growing desire to lick his lips as he watched the ice cubes dance about—cool and refreshing in the fickleness of their choreography. His hands twitched behind his back.

“It’s impolite to refuse, Jon Snow,” the man chided, his tone growing in its warning as he bent forward, his body language imposing.

And with the motion, Jon noticed then the glint of metal sticking from the man’s shirt pocket—the pin of a key just barely revealed. His heart did an flip.

But when Jon again declined to openly react, the man’s mouth curled, twisting and shut as if to trap his seething anger. “Fine.” He fell back. “But know this, bastard—you will have to eat something soon enough.” With that, he stood up. “And I am _not_ a man with much patience.”

Jon’s body softened when the door slammed shut—pleased to have had such miniscule victory. He had wanted to make the man angry—if for no other reason than to chip away at his unbearable overconfidence. And it had worked—to the successful avoidance of his humiliation—only making Jon’s rebellion all the sweeter. All the same though, Jon knew the man’s parting words to be true.

_I can't keep this up forever._

But regardless, more than anything at present—more so than the dreading of his inevitable degradation, relief once more at the reprieve of solitude, or his momentary sense of self-satisfaction—Jon felt the subtle stirrings of hope take hold once more, his newly acquired knowledge of the door key’s placement invaluable in its potential.

As the morning dragged on, Jon mused on his revived direction, crafting idle plans for how to best go about swiping the key and conducting his escape. Many times, he ran through the different scenarios in his head, trying to picture each move and their next resulting step.

Ultimately, this thinking served well as a distraction, but by the time afternoon had rolled in, Jon had become more fully consumed by the physicality of other, pressing matters.

For starters, he truly was very hungry. By Jon’s reckoning, he had not eaten for a full day or two, depending on how long it had been that he was unconscious. As it was, when Jon closed his eyes now, he could taste the imagined cheddar in the sandwich, stomach gurgling, but mouth far too dry to produce any saliva. For there in itself was another—thirst.

His eyes felt stretched—too small and prickling with dehydration, while his throat felt like sandpaper, raw from his cries, their scratch yet unsoothed. Meanwhile, Jon’s head was dizzy, his heart palpitating and his skin feverish. And to top it all off were the aches and tremors in his body. These pains would come in waves—spiking at times in the torque of his shoulders or the back of his head before dulling back down to a low throb. 

Though through all this, perhaps most overwhelming of all, was the steady swelling of Jon’s bladder—his need to relieve himself growing by the second. This strain seemed at odds with Jon’s utter lack of fluid intake, but regardless, it existed, and Jon was helpless to curb its presence.

It didn’t feel like normal—not like when Jon would drink a large glass of water, only to have it work its way through his system an hour later, his swollen bladder deflating gently with relief.

No, this was different.

For despite his growing urge, Jon’s bladder didn’t even feel full now—not truly. Instead, it felt dry and shrinking, as though gathering what little water Jon had in his system and twisting it inside him. The sensation was overwhelming and painful, and it soon had Jon squirming—jittering his legs restlessly to distract from his increasingly uncomfortable need to pee.

A memory was surfaced for Jon then, one that he had long ago pushed to the back of his mind.

Theon Greyjoy was Robb’s friend growing up, a troubled boy who often spent weeks at a time with the Starks—by all intents and purposes, a live-in guest. Theon’s home life had been difficult, Jon knew—his father indifferent and his brothers regularly violent. So to say the boy had found comfort and reprieve in the Stark household would be an understatement.

Though, while the rest of the family accepted Theon’s addition easily enough, Jon had always been put off by it, finding Theon’s presence largely jarring, if not problematic in influence. And if Jon were being honest with himself, he never liked having to compete for Robb’s attention, always feeling slightly the outsider himself. 

Thus, with Theon on the scene, Jon’s preferred method of existence consisted largely of sulking in the corners as the other children played. His brothers and sisters would leave him be often enough (save perhaps Arya, who always enthusiastically dragged Jon into whatever group activity she was participating in). But Theon was different—Theon would oft seek Jon out just to needle or harass him, the word _bastard_ commonly hot on his tongue.

Jon never understood why he’d do it, but it had been like that since the early days—since when Jon was only six; he, Robb, and Theon set to play a game of hide-and-seek, just after Robb had introduced Jon to his new companion.

Jon had been proud of himself then.

_Father’s and Aunt Cat’s closet—it was the perfect spot!_

And though Theon had found Jon soon enough, Jon’s disappointment at discovery quickly gave way to unsettled fear, as Theon, instead of gloating, had merely slammed the closet door back shut, twisting its knob and locking it in place.

At first Jon thought it was a joke, but when he was still sat alone in the blackness fifteen minutes later, he had begun to wonder.

Still, he had not cried in the beginning, mute in his suffering as the time stretched on. But things took a turn when eventually, Jon’s small bladder had begun to throb. 

He’d held on for a long time—a boy of six, clutching at himself and whimpering as he stood in the darkness for the better part of a couple hours. Of course, the strain had ultimately been too much—hot, stinging shame soon running down Jon’s leg as his tears began to fall.

An hour or so after that, Robb had wrenched open the door, pale and apologetic as he muttered things like, _I didn’t know_ and _he said you’d gone to your room_. But Robb still hadn’t chided Theon as the older boy had laughed, pointing to the stain on Jon’s front—Robb’s silence stinging.

Catelyn had been furious, though whether her anger was most directed at Jon or Theon, Jon couldn’t say. All he knew was that he was responsible for soiling her expensive pumps, his humiliation overwhelming as she shouted down at him—small shoulders slumping beneath the burden of his aunt’s anger. 

So that evening, Jon had scraped together his money, all of two silver stags and fourteen copper pennies, taking a scrap of paper and writing out _SORRY_ in big, scratched letters before placing the note and coins on Catelyn’s pillow.

The money had been returned to Jon by the next morning, left quietly on his dresser in a small pile, no note in sight. And the matter had not been broached since.

Of course all this was long before Theon had run off, taking a good sum of money from the Stark family’s funds, never to be heard from again. Robb had taken this betrayal to heart, especially as Ned had only just passed, but for Jon, it had only cemented his seething anger towards Theon Greyjoy.

If he were to ever see Theon again, Jon was fairly certain he would hit him.

_But I'll have to get out of here first._

Jon’s belly cramped—bladder pulsing as he looked at the toilet, its sight a special kind of torture. He crossed his legs, and groaning, Jon turned away.

The man came back sometime in the evening, another plate and cup in hand.

This time, Jon barely wasted any time before speaking, “I have to piss,” he grunted, resigned to the submissiveness of making such a claim, unwilling to otherwise let himself be soiled.

The man grinned. “Ask nicely.”

Jon’s jaw clenched at the request, his teeth grinding at the glaring indignity of his situation. All the same, Jon was fairly close to bursting as it was, and it would only be after he had relieved himself, that he could have a solid go at the key—its outline still comfortingly faint in the pocket of the man’s shirt.

“Fine,” Jon spat, his temples flaring. “Can I use the toilet?” 

“That’s better,” the man chuckled, kneeling down to unhook Jon’s chains. He paused then, waving the black remote in hand. “Remember though… _Behave_.”

Jon sighed angrily, but remained still as he was freed from the wall, only to then have his hands reshackled in front of him. The ease on his shoulders felt so sweet, and Jon thought for a moment, he might collapse—comfort already such a foreign sensation.

But when Jon didn’t falter, the man simply guided him to the toilet, before stepping away, standing to the side and nodding expectantly.

Jon frowned, loathing himself as a blush crept warmly to his cheeks—making his modest shame all the more palpable to his observer. Biting his tongue, Jon lifted the seat, undid his belt, and pulled out his cock, closing his eyes at the small hum (be it amused or otherwise), which escaped the man’s lips in response.

All the same, he almost gasped at the sensation of release—the relief so overwhelming, Jon felt momentarily light-headed by it. He stood there for good while, the relaxation of his bladder balanced by the heightening of his adrenaline—the picture of the key growing clearer in his mind as his stream began to weaken.

Jon shook himself dry, and the second he had zipped up his fly, he turned on heel, launching his attack by snapping the point of his elbow into the man’s throat.

The man sputtered as he was pushed back into the wall, Jon quickly slamming his adversary’s fist into the stones, crunching his fingers and wrenching the remote free of his hold.

But with no time to dwell on the importance of such a move, Jon carried forth, jerking his knee into the man’s groin—pushing a hand into his shirt pocket as the man fell forward with the force of the blow, a grunt caught in the ring of his smug, mealy lips.

And when Jon’s fingers had wrapped around the metal loop of the key, he shoved the man to the ground, bolting for the door at the end of the hallway, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.

With trembling hands, Jon shoved the key in the lock, exhaling with relief as it clicked.

Jon threw the door open then, only to come face to face with two thick men stood just outside it.

“Oi!” one shouted, his foul breath heavy in the air.

No time to dwell in his panic, Jon jumped forward, scooting through their reaching arms and taking off down the adjacent hallway—its walls cold and clinical in their bareness.

But as he reached the hallway’s next twist, Jon staggered—his moment of hesitation proving detrimental, for all of the sudden, Jon was tackled brutally to the ground.

He felt the strike to his kidneys first, the loss of the shock-collar’s remote next—his fingers twisted harshly, causing the plastic to fall from his clutch.

On his knees, Jon scrambled then, throwing his weight to hit against his assailant’s knees and stumbling to a stand. But his efforts were soon for naught, as the other man came at him from behind, grabbing the thick of Jon’s curls and slamming his head into the wall with repeated force.

Jon’s vision went spotty as he was picked up again by the rough of his shirt, dragged through the hallway and back towards the door he had initially barreled out of. 

Both men were holding him now, their grips tight against his upper-arms, which were pinned firmly to Jon’s sides. Grappling to stay standing, Jon’s eyelids were heavy, his despondency growing as the door loomed closer.

_I've failed._

And when he was pushed forwards through the room’s threshold, back into the space with which he had become so well acquainted, a familiar sight greeted him.

The man stood before Jon, looking decidedly angrier than Jon had ever seen him. His face had gone pale, stretched blue over the sharp lines of his skull. It was a new expression for Jon, even more chilling than all those which came before.

Nonetheless, Jon still wrestled in the hold of his detainers, standing tall to face the man—steadfast despite his vulnerability.

But his defiance was short-lived, as the man soon stepped forth, sneering as he reached out, grabbing Jon by the balls and gripping tight.

Surprised, Jon let out a mewling groan, twisting in the man’s hold as his genitals were squeezed even harder. The man tugged then, using his grip to pull Jon towards him, so that the tips of their noses nearly brushed, Jon, for his part, doing all he could to remove himself from such conditions—pain settling achingly in the pit of Jon’s belly, clambering up to the base of his throat and manifesting as the feverish bite of nausea.

“Mark me, bastard,” The man hissed then, teeth exposed and sharp. “You will learn from this misstep.”

And with that, Jon was let go, his body sagging as he was thrown to the floor and dragged to the wall by the man, only to be chained up once more.

Head clouded and balls throbbing, Jon folded his legs, taking deep breaths as he tried to stifle the pain. He looked to the man then, asking the only question he could think of in the moment—its directedness a last resort.

“Who are you?”

And while indeed the man still looked angry, his lips curled into an amused leer. “I thought you’d never ask,” he chuckled before continuing, his face once more falling serious. “My name is Ramsay Bolton—does it sound familiar?”

Through his haze of pain, Jon searched his mind. 

_Bolton._

The name rang a bell, though why and how Jon couldn’t say—perhaps it was vaguely associated with some crime report he had seen on the news. But _Ramsay Bolton_ ; Jon was certain he’d never heard that name before.

“No, it wouldn’t,” Ramsay said knowingly, kneeling down to Jon’s level and cocking his head. He was staring at Jon as a hungry dog might a steak.

“Do you want to know why I told you my name?” Ramsay asked then. The question hung in the air, rhetorical despite the pause it demanded. He laughed. “It’s certainly not because you asked. No.” Ramsay moved his face closer, mere inches from Jon’s. “No, I told you because it doesn’t matter—whether or not you know my name.” His eyes darted, as though gauging the nuance of Jon’s reaction. “It won’t matter because you won’t _ever_ be getting out of here. Do you understand?”

Jon swallowed thickly, a furious sneer bending on his lips. “Fuck you,” he said, his voice hoarse and daring.

Ramsay smiled softly then, nodding curtly before righting himself.

And as Jon looked up at Ramsay, he saw something flash in the other man’s eyes—something Jon couldn’t quite understand, but something which alarmed him all the same; a look foreboding in the dead heat of its excitement.

For Jon Snow, sleep didn’t come that night.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: forced bathing/washing, violence, non-consensual touching, graphic language

By the fourth day, the ache in Jon’s shoulders was nearly unbearable, tied as they were behind his back. As the minutes ticked by, the pain bloomed and folded in time with Jon’s heartbeat—a steady thrum, which had him twisting in his binds.

Jon could tell his muscles were already beginning to weaken, trembling tautly beneath the firm stretch of his skin as he sat, trapped and immobile. The throb of his bruises, blooming from his beating, only making matters worse.

And while Jon did manage some sleep, his slumbers were largely sporadic and unrewarding; nothing more than a collection of short dozes clutched only by the fever of necessity.

In the meantime, Jon did what he could to distract himself from the pain—during the plod of his stretched awakedness; by now having spent hours listening to the hands of his watch skate their rotations, his attentions vigilant, as though for fear that were he to drift in focus, time might cease altogether. This thought alone was terrifying—each miniscule, metronomic tick doing well in ensuring to Jon that he still, indeed, existed.

So time went on like this, and as these hours lengthened, Jon almost swore he could physically feel the seconds passing—feel the ticking sinking through the skin of his cuffed wrist and settling somewhere deep in his bones.

_Gods, what I wouldn’t give for a cigarette._

And as the watch sounded through the haze of these waking hours, eyes tight and tired, Jon would stare bitterly at the pallet across the room.

_Tick, tick, tick._

The bedding looked unspeakably soft from the distance—the sheerness of its inaccessible comfort only adding to Jon’s torment. It had to be there for a reason, Jon thought.

_Surely Ramsay will eventually let me sleep properly._

But as it was, Jon certainly wasn’t doing his part to curry Ramsay’s favor—in fact, just the opposite, for Jon’s righteous stubbornness had been fully manifesting into the heat of stoic rebellion and clipped surges of violence.

Small resistances were where Jon initially found control—refusing food and water or holding his bladder for as long as he could stand. When Ramsay would ask him a question, Jon would avoid answering—a man of few words generally, but this particular silence stoked by the steady seething of directed anger.

And then, only after repeated needling, would Jon eventually (if at all) respond with clipped words, fully worn and angry in his retorts. But, for the rest, Jon would do his best to be nothing more than a mute resister, stifling the heat of his impulsivity and refusing the rise Ramsay so clearly enjoyed—a task easier said than done.

***

Twice a day Ramsay would enter the room—once in the morning and once at night—carrying some meager meal and a glass of water. His schedule was ridged and unbending, Jon keeping this preciseness tracked by glancing at his watch as he urinated—the only time Jon was allowed his hands at his front.

But even without the watch’s assurance, Jon knew it was only the morning after his second escape attempt that he had first broken on his refusal of water—the scratch in his throat fully overwhelming. He could make it longer without food he knew, but water was necessary to stay alive, something Jon was keen to do, if only to spite the debilitating inaction of his captivity.

So then, Jon had allowed Ramsay this step: placing the cup to Jon’s lips, parting them with its rim, and tilting so that the liquid poured gently into Jon’s mouth.

_And Gods, water had never tasted so good._

But when Ramsay had reached out smiling, taking Jon’s chin in hand and squeezing possessively so as to pucker Jon’s lips, Jon had choked, kicking out his boot and driving it into the bone of Ramsay’s shin—this offense too much to bear passively. The water had splashed everywhere as Ramsay struggled to maintain his balance—the behavior earning Jon another shock from the collar, its bite ending only when Jon’s shouts were ringing loudly in the troughs of his own ears.

The next night Jon accepted food, eating half of a sandwich before the self-disgust overwhelmed his hunger. He’d refused the other half in the end—tight-lipped, and glowering.

Only then, in the days afterward, did Ramsay begin to shock Jon for the smallest infractions—any refusal or disobedience. To Jon’s mild relief, the voltage had been turned down considerably—the pain now brief and manageable in its intensity. But his relief was short-lived, for these shocks were no longer meant to immobilize, Jon soon understood, but instead, it seemed, to shape Jon’s behavior—a reality alarming in and of itself.

On one such clarifying occasion, Ramsay had set off the collar simply in response to the fierceness of Jon’s glare. _Cheer up, bastard,_ he’d said, his tone bordering on acidic, as though his amusement were beginning to fray.

_Good._

Jon knew the escape attempts had made Ramsay angry initially, but now, it was something new. Now, Ramsay was acting affronted—like a child who had been given an expensive toy, seeking to immediately cripple it, but finding himself petulant and unhappy when its legs didn’t snap properly.

And at his lowest, Jon thought maybe he should just _snap properly_ —the exhausted pointlessness of fighting back beginning to grow. In these trying moments, body sore and wracked from shocks, Jon flirted with just how easy it would be to obey Ramsay’s wishes—to eat his regular meals and piss and shit at assigned intervals—his most basic needs cared for on schedule. But this would merely be surviving, Jon would quickly reaffirm—nothing more—and the indignance over his circumstance would soon set his blood boiling again.

So ultimately, Jon mustered his strength and maintained his opposition through the week, weary from the fight of it, but keeping on—testing just how much he could push his captor.

***

Ygritte would be searching for him by now, Jon was sure of that much. The thought comforted him—some small kernel of hope settling in his chest.

_She’ll have contacted my family—they'll all be looking._

He tried to picture Ygritte—she must be afraid, worried, and angry—or hurt. And knowing Ygritte, he imagined she would be all of those things ferociously, and all at once.

Jon remembered then the night Ghost went missing—how frenzied and panicked Ygritte had been. He remembered thinking she might have burned down the whole of Winter town had Jon not found Ghost in the end—when he’d closed his eyes and somehow known precisely just where the beast was; three blocks down the street and huddled beneath the shade of a Heart tree. Jon never could explain it. 

He wished Ygritte could do the same for him now.

_Will she ever find me?_

Jon’s heart swelled at the thought, before immediately sinking—twisting and deflated, as he looked down the bleak hallway his opposite, its door firmly enveloped in shadows. The depth of the corridor’s blackness hit Jon hard then—the heft of its dark uncertainty only serving to remind him of the tortured ambivalence of everything that was happening.

And with no apparent rhyme or reason for his kidnapping and confinement, Jon further realized then—staring into the darkness—that his discovery would be all the more unlikely, if not sincerely impossible. 

He sighed, thoroughly exhausted.

_Right. So escape, then._

But it wasn’t so simple. For even so, what Jon had learned from his week of imprisonment—that time still carried on resiliently, hammering against his wrists like a heartbeat, that two thick men guarded the hallway’s door from the outside, and that he was currently being held captive by a man as unhinged as he was punctual and mysterious—was nowhere near enough information to form any concrete plans, let alone spur a worthwhile breakout attempt.

_You know nothin’, Jon Snow._

Closing his eyes, Jon could hear the rasp of Ygritte’s voice—feel the echo of her skin and the taste of her touch—as he drifted off into the scratch of restless, desperate dreaming.

***

On the seventh day, Jon was awoken by the scrape of metal along the concrete floor. He opened his eyes to see the two men from outside dragging a large, metal basin across the ground—steam rising and water sloshing from its hold.

Jon’s stomach flipped as he whipped his head to look at Ramsay—brows furrowed; confusion shadowed only by his growing dismay.

“Sorry to wake you,” Ramsay said cheerily, blaringly false in his apology.

“What is this?” Jon asked slowly. His head throbbed—lack of sleep twisting at his aching eyeballs. 

“ _This?_ It’s your bath,” the man answered, gesturing towards the tub with an eager grin.

Jon’s stomach churned with dread, face hardening with anger. “No,” he said, shaking his head.

Ramsay paused, before cupping a hand to his ear. “ _No_?”

“No.” Jon reiterated, firm in his refusal—temper brewing in wait, ever the protector of his dignity.

“Well… I’m afraid it’s not up for discussion,” the man chuckled, his voice lilting. “Besides, you’re—” he pointed a finger at Jon then, “—you’re starting to stink!”

Ramsay wasn’t wrong—Jon could smell himself, the sweat and salt and blood. But all the same, Jon would endure a thousand shocks before he willingly stepped into a bath for this man, pride and persistent modesty heating Jon’s resistance. 

Thus, as Ramsay approached, Jon grunted in protest, pulling his knees to his chest—eyes wide and mouth dry. “Stop,” he growled, his voice maintaining its edge despite Jon’s growing alarm.

Jon vaguely registered then that the other men had left the room, just as Ramsay knelt before him.

Ramsay rolled his eyes dramatically at the tightness of Jon’s position. “Jon Snow,” he said, lips curling around his teeth. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

And when Jon said nothing, Ramsay reached out, grasping the cusp of Jon’s kneecap, before shoving a hand none too gently between Jon’s legs—grabbing hold of the leather of his belt. Livid, Jon jerked his head then, smashing it against Ramsay’s lips and reopening the wound Jon had left just a few days before.

Reeling from the blow, Ramsay stepped back, as though collecting himself. Rage flaring, he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at Jon with the same blue malice he’d shown before.

Meanwhile, Jon stared furiously back, chest heaving and hair ruffled.

Ramsay spat the blood to the ground at Jon’s feet. And before Jon could react, Ramsay was dropping down once more, using the point of his knee to pin Jon’s thigh to the ground while simultaneously clenching a hand tight around Jon’s throat.

Ramsay slammed Jon’s head against the bricks then, fingers kneading into the pale flesh of Jon’s neck, just above where the collar’s plastic dug sharply into his skin.

“I’m growing tired of your resistance, bastard.”

Jon gasped for breath, struggling heatedly on the swell of his fight—rage burning in his chest. But he stilled at Ramsay’s next words, cold and low as they tittered from Ramsay’s sneering lips.

“She looked lovely this morning, you know—your _Ygritte_.” 

Jon’s stomach fell then, all the way to the bottom—past his balls and through his knees, running through his toes and settling somewhere deep in the concrete of the floor. His body ran cold and hot at the same time—the shock of crippling despair washing through him like a volt.

“I can see why you like her,” Ramsay continued, chuckling. “I’ve always been fond of redheads myself.”

And as Jon’s eyes widened with dismay, the flare in Ramsay’s eyes calmed, replaced by the soft arrogance of his malice—like a cat, grinning haughtily at the successful cornering of a mouse. 

He loosened his hold on Jon then, the relief of air little in comparison to the weight of this new revelation.

“You’re surprised?” The man grinned knowingly, like he’d been struggling to keep this information a secret—excited in his delivery. “But I know you, bastard: Jon Snow,” he pushed out his bottom lip in mock sympathy. “Raised without his mummy or daddy.” He drew his head back, his tone changing to one of esteem. “Taken in by the noble Ned and Catelyn Stark… Oh, and she’s lovely too. Isn’t she?” Ramsay paused again, gauging Jon’s reaction, his smile widening. “But she never loved you, did she? Not like your wildling does.”

Jon grimaced, shutting his eyes tightly, as though to collapse in on himself—to escape this.

“I _am_ sorry about your late uncle,” Ramsay continued, brows arching. “Nasty business, all that—when was it? Ten years ago now?” he clicked his tongue, “leaving a single mother to raise five children… Well, six counting his sister’s bastard…” Ramsay knit his brows. “How old is the littlest—Rickon—Sixteen?”

The menacing purpose of this telling wasn’t lost on Jon, who opened his eyes then, dark and pleading. “Please don’t hurt them.” His voice was hoarse and quiet—his appeal as raw as it was perceiving.

“ _Don’t hurt them?_ ” Ramsay laughed, darting his eyes around the room, as if both indignant and surprised by the suggestion. But he soon locked his gaze back to Jon, sizing up Jon’s understanding, his expression growing in its seriousness. “That, Jon Snow, will be up to you.”

Jon felt as though he might vomit, his skin breaking out into a cold sweat—the gravity of his figurative immobility only just starting to settle.

And when Jon said nothing, Ramsay continued, standing up—now towering over Jon’s seated figure, blocking the light of the single bulb, which hung from the ceiling. “I want you to know where we stand,” he said coolly, before husking a short, clipped laugh, obsequious in its nod to modesty. “I’ll admit; you’ve been harder than I expected. You must be starving.” He turned his palms up, “and yet you don’t eat. You must be thirsty… And yet you don’t drink.” Ramsay dropped his hands, cocking his head to better see Jon’s face. “And the collar hasn’t worked for you—not like it did with Reek.” He hummed then, like a man lost in fond memories. “Reek broke quickly.”

_Reek?_

But Jon didn’t have time to dwell, for Ramsay continued. “No… You—“ He jabbed a finger in Jon’s direction then, beaming, as though thoroughly impressed. “You’re good. You’re _very_ good.” But Ramsay soon dropped the finger, bending down, and leveling himself again with Jon. “But I’m _better._ ”

Ramsay’s eyes were wide—icy blue and rimmed in black, the lines of his face carved and pallid around teeth bared in a crooked smile. Jon, for his part, stared back with weary distress—somber and hard in his expression, the jump in his throat betraying his collectedness.

“Now!” Ramsay clapped, causing Jon to startle. “It’s time for your bath!”

But when the man reached out, Jon couldn’t help but flinch—jerking away on instinct.

Ramsay’s face fell once more, all amusement lost. “Tell me, will you let your wildling die because you’re too _proud_ to submit?” And there it was—the full force of Ramsay’s knowledge, of his threat, concrete—realized.

Jon’s lids closed over the globe of his eyes then, dark lashes fanning against the white of his skin, all illusion of choice—of control—draining. His eyes crinkled on the crush of a subconscious wince, a soft, low whine trapped in his throat.

Ramsay hummed, as if in answer. “No, I thought not.” He bent forward, one hand rested on Jon’s shoulder as he undid the cuffs.

Freed, Jon pulled his hands to his lap, staring blankly at the floor as he wrung them slowly together—feeling decidedly like a man outside his own body.

But when Ramsay hooked a hand beneath Jon’s arm, pulling him to a stand, Jon’s anger resurfaced, swimming alongside his despair and blazing in the dark of his eyes.

Still, he let himself be moved, guided as he was towards the tub. Jon willed himself to stay still as Ramsay reached out, sliding his fingers to the top button of Jon’s shirt. “Keep your hands at your side,” he warned, smiling.

And so Jon did as he was bid, unable to stop the bitter sneer curling on the pout of his lips.

Ramsay worked slowly, slipping each button gently from its hole—making a show of moving to the lower. But Jon couldn’t look at him—couldn’t watch those fingers work—so he closed his eyes instead.

And when the buttons had all been unfastened, Ramsay stepped back before speaking again. “Good. Now—the next.”

Jon ground his teeth and shrugged obediently from his sleeves, letting the shirt fall to the floor before reaching back to tug his undershirt over his head. Static made his hair stick up on all ends, goose bumps skittering soon across his bare chest. The t-shirt quickly joined its partner on the ground.

Jon took a deep breath then, preparing himself for the next encroachment—the air shuttering through parted lips on its exhale. And while he meant to obey, his hands faltered, moving to the buckle of his belt and coming to a rest. Jon’s mouth opened, as if to speak—opening and closing once more before closing altogether.

But his silent plea went unmet, and soon, Ramsay was back at his front, pushing Jon’s hands to his side, where they stayed—clenched and trembling.

And when Jon’s belt was unbuckled, Ramsay pulled on the zipper of his jeans, causing Jon’s breath to hitch. He bit down on his lip to stifle the noise.

But paying no mind to Jon’s discomfort, Ramsay tugged the jeans down then, struggling as the denim stuck, bunched around the knots of Jon’s knees. “You’re going to have to help me, Jon Snow,” he chuckled then. “These are far tighter than any trousers I’ve seen.”

So Jon coolly acquiesced, bending down and stepping from his jeans in a daze.

He stood there in his trunks then, shifting his stance from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under the heat of observation.

“And? The shorts too, Jon.” 

Eyes distant, Jon nodded then, ever so slightly, the movement almost unnoticeable—as though giving himself permission to do what must be done.

Without further stalling, Jon hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic of the waistband and dropped his shorts to his feet in one motion, stepping quickly from their confines as he moved a hand to cup his privates. He looked to Ramsay then, as if to ask _what now_ , swallowing his vulnerable revulsion—chest rising and falling heavily atop the stutter of his ribs.

Amused, Ramsay smiled and gestured to the tub.

To which Jon moved, stepping into the basin and sinking down into its warmth as swiftly as he could manage—the heat pushing a soft groan from his chest. He watched the water ripple as he settled, ringing out before fading away.

The water was encompassing, lapping and soothing, and Jon looked down, vaguely noting the way his pale legs distorted under the water’s ripple.

_Everything’s changed._

And as he sat there, hunched over in the water as Ramsay began to run a cloth down the slope of Jon’s spine and across the blades of his shoulders, Jon understood this—his anger giving way to the despondency of its truth. For, while violence had not worked as a means of submission, this surely would.

_Ygritte—my family._

Jon shut his eyes, shutting out the noise and the light—feeling only the scratch of a rag along his arm, the limb having been stretched out for Ramsay’s attentive washing.

And when the cloth reached Jon’s palm, Ramsay stopped, rubbing a thumb along the groove of Jon’s burns. The motion was probing—intimate even, Ramsay’s touch surveying and light. Only Ygritte ever touched these scars, and even then, it was only after the spanning development of their closeness.

“How did you get these burns?” Ramsay asked, in the way a barber might make small talk as he performed his service.

“Fire,” Jon answered, bitter and clipped.

Ramsay dropped Jon’s hand then, angling his head to shoot Jon a look—one that resonated impatience.

_A warning._

Jon’s temples pulsed, but he answered nonetheless, pulling deep within his chest for the energy to speak. “I saved Chief Commander Mormont’s life that night. Pulled him from the flames.” Jon shifted in the water, pulling his hand back beneath its surface.

“So you’re a hero!” Ramsay said excitedly, his gaze keen and invasive. “That’s wonderful.”

Jon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter—he still died a few months later.”

Ramsay eyed Jon carefully, as if caught off guard, but he soon spoke regardless. “Yes… Well we all have to die sometime, don’t we, Jon Snow. Now, lean back.”

Jon looked to Ramsay properly then, for the first time since entering the bath, hoping for some confirmation that he’d misheard the request.

But when Ramsay nodded encouragingly, Jon grit his teeth and sighed—leaning warily against the tub’s side as he slowly stretched out his legs.

Jon daren’t close his eyes though, watching as Ramsay moved closer, a grin leering on his lips. The man moved gingerly, dipping the cloth in the water between Jon’s legs, wetting it and watching Jon all the while.

For his part, Jon was tense all over, his body taut and rigid as he struggled to remain unmoving, the cloth not yet making contact, but his space disturbed all the same.

But the tease ended soon enough, when Ramsay, smirking knowingly, pulled the rag from the water, wringing it before pressing its bulk to Jon’s chest. He circled the cloth with purpose then, brushing across the russet disks of Jon’s nipples, sliding into the groove of his sternum and the dip of his clavicles. 

Seething and anxious, Jon thought to say something once or twice as the washing continued, to scream and fight and bite—but every time his words queued and his muscles coiled, Jon pictured Ygritte—pictured Arya and Rickon, and Sansa. And so he stopped himself, allowing Ramsay to continue with his display.

Ramsay dragged his attentions to Jon’s belly soon enough, ringing around the flat of Jon’s navel, moving just beneath the water’s surface and skating the rag lower—across Jon’s flanking hipbones.

But Jon let out a relieved breath when Ramsay halted.

“Put your feet up,” Ramsay said.

The request made Jon’s stomach clench, but, with steeping anger quickly dissolving any relief he might have felt, Jon did as Ramsay demanded, glowering at the water as he pulled his feet to the tub’s rim, the exposure as unsettling as it was demeaning.

Humming his approval, Ramsay took hold then, gripping the meat of Jon’s calf where he soon began to lather and scrub, Jon pliant all the while. He moved along the line of Jon’s shin and onto Jon’s feet, vigilant in his cleaning.

And when Ramsay had finished, fingers still wrapped around the arch of Jon’s foot, he sat back on his haunches.

Jon, on the other hand, dragged his feet back into the water, pulling his knees to his chest, and closing in on himself.

And for a time, the only sound in the room was the slow, slosh of the water. That is, until Ramsay spoke again.

“Open your legs.”

What little color left in Jon’s face drained completely then, solid dread blooming in his stomach. In the moment, air didn’t quite seem to reach his lungs, stuck instead in his throat, glitching and sharp.

All the same, ever so slowly, Jon began to move, dropping his knees below the water. He gripped the sides of the tub next, as though bracing himself—the muscle of his arm trembling and tight with anticipatory humiliation.

Ramsay cocked a grin and shifted closer, looking to Jon as he stretched out a hand, dipping his fingers beneath the water’s surface.

It felt like a dream, blurred red, angry, and slow.

And when Ramsay’s touch skated below Jon’s navel, Jon’s eyes were wide and watching, full-blown in their horror. Jon’s throat tightened then, as he remembered the clutch of the man’s hand from a few days past—his stomach dropping from the pain of the memory; panic welling in his throat.

“Wait—“

But Ramsay was gentle, the cool of his fingers trailing softly through the coarse hair between Jon’s legs before wrapping lithely around the base of his member.

At the touch, Jon shut his eyes, closing them as tightly as he could—knuckles gripped white around the edge of the tub.

Here, Ramsay was attentive as ever, soaping Jon’s shaft and lifting his balls, pulling one at a time—his attentions as delicate as they were purposeful.

And when Ramsay pulled Jon’s foreskin back, circling and cleaning just beneath the head, Jon sucked back a mortified groan, his chest swelling with one long, held breath.

Yet Ramsay soon moved lower still, and Jon’s eyes flew open with surprise, his body jerking back in the water. But a disapproving click of the tongue had Jon settling back in place, shame and anger stirring his blood as the rag moved between his cheeks—Jon nothing more than a disgraced bystander to his own defilement.

When Ramsay had finished, he moved—once more out of sight. Jon sat shaking—his whole body skittering from the inside out, jaw clenched as he stared furiously at the water, biting the inside of his lip.

Suddenly, warm water poured down Jon’s head, black locks now hanging, dripping and stringy before his eyes. Jon shut his eyes once more, to the massaging of his scalp and the steady jostle of his head—face held in the resigned soft of a cringe.

The touch was charged, each move carrying the weight of dominant affection, and had the circumstances been different, Jon may just have liked it. After all, he’d always loved when Ygritte played with his hair. 

_Before her, no one ever had._

But eventually, this final onslaught ended, having been fully suffered. Ramsay stopped then, dropping back to the balls of his feet. “Good,” he praised, as though to soothe. “Now stand for me.”

And so with a bitter sigh, Jon stood, his body pale and blue in the light of the bulb—all color having drained to the pruned, pink of his extremities as he stood there dripping. He stepped from the tub.

Ramsay handed Jon a towel then, its material harsh and white, like something Jon might have seen before at a hotel.

He took it all the same, quickly tousling his hair dry, running a hand through the strands when he had finished, pulling the black mass back from his face. The action was intimate in its instinct—habit stripped raw under the gaze of observation. 

Jon covered his waist then, looking up as Ramsay spoke.

“I have something for you.” He held out a pair of white trunks, just Jon’s size. 

And after a moment’s hesitation, Jon reached out, taking them. He held the shorts in his hands, standing motionless, as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

“What do you say?”

Jon grimaced before looking to the ceiling, as though it might have answers. But when he found none, he merely sighed, despair and rage wringing on the push of his breath. “Thank you.”

Not making eye contact, he dropped the towel then, stepping quickly into the trunks, snapping the elastic and adjusting himself deftly beneath the tight fabric of the material. His heartbeat ticked wearily in his neck, all too aware of his being watched—something Jon had always hated.

Ramsay held up a t-shirt then. “Black!” he said excitedly. “It seems to be your color.”

So Jon took the shirt wordlessly and pulled it over his head, going through the motions in a daze, and accepting the black socks and gray sweatpants, which soon followed. Longingly, he looked to his old pile of clothes, bloodied and wrinkled, but _his_ all the same. These new clothes weren’t his.

He watched as Ramsay picked them up, shoulders dropping defeatedly as Ramsay pocketed Jon’s father’s watch with a smirk. And when the small black box fell from the pocket of his jeans, Jon’s shoulders fell further, his stomach churning.

“Oh and what’s this?” Ramsay asked, picking up the box with eager merriment. He flicked the lid open, exposing the glint of the ruby ring. “A ring. You were going to propose, weren’t you?” A dawning grin stretched on his lips, his mouth open in gleeful surprise. “That is terrible timing!” He laughed.

For his part, Jon said nothing, the pain in his chest only tightening.

Ramsay pocketed the ring as well, before gesturing to the cuffs across the room. “Now, back to the wall, Jon Snow.”

Jon complied, walking slowly in his stupor, sick with himself over his genuine disappointment that he still wasn’t granted access to the blankets and pillow in the corner—sicker still that he’d felt he might have _earned_ them.

And as Ramsay clicked the cuffs around Jon’s wrists—the familiar throb in Jon’s shoulders already returning—the man spoke once more, his voice low from the gravity of his words. “She thinks you left her, you know,” Ramsay said, watching as Jon closed his eyes softly, his head falling back against the bricks in abject grief. “It’s what the policemen keep telling her.” And then, as though pleased that his words had resonated, Ramsay stood up and left the room.

And in five minutes, when he returned with a glass of water and a sandwich, Jon accepted both in hurried silence, a man now supple, despite the gnawing anguish of his fury.

The food tasted like nothing.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: rape/forced orgasm, threats of violence

Jon looked to the floor, twisting his toes in his socks as he stared at the space between them, his eyes wide and unblinking. 

He had been like this for an hour or so, devoid of affect—the stifling ebb and flow of pointlessness curdling inside him. 

Every so often, despite his stillness, Jon’s stomach would clench, jittering for a moment—the sensation trembling through his chest before uncinching, his body relaxing once more. But otherwise, he was motionless, nausea vacantly throbbing in the clutch of his throat, his shoulders tight and his face expressionless. Jon’s skin felt dry, his tongue and eyes and nose felt dry. But it didn’t matter—he stared all the same.

The concrete of the ground was grey and speckled, cool through the weave of his thin socks.

_Not my socks._

The longer Jon stared, the stranger the shape of his feet seemed—almost like they didn’t belong to him. Absently, his thoughts eventually flitted to the shape of Ygritte’s feet, bony and small. He thought of the freckle just beneath the bloom of her big toe, unaware as his lips began to pull into a faint, tugging smile.

Jon tried to picture her then—the blunt of her nose and the blue of her eyes, the way her face crinkled as she laughed (so often at his expense) and the flat of her teeth, just slightly too big for her mouth.

He tried to recall the last time he’d seen her, tried to remember what she had said—what she had looked like as she cupped her hand into a wave, her skin pale and her hair bright against the green of her blazer. 

_I’d meant to make her my wife… but will I ever even see her again?_

Jon’s brow furrowed as he passed the pink of his tongue along the crease of his lips, the cold of the room suddenly returning—disintegrating the glow of his daydream.

He shivered then, his face falling as reality settled once more, the grey beneath his feet stretching and impartial.

Sighing, Jon’s chest filled and collapsed from the force of his despondency—its growing presence the foil to the seething giddiness, which Ramsay had shown over the past few days. For since his captor’s gleeful revelation (and Jon’s subsequent washing) a few day’s prior, Jon had grown fairly numbed in his pliancy—the fresh sent of soap fading on his skin as the wretched hours melted into each other—Jon now accepting food and drink with strained regularity, wary that repeated resistance might warrant something more than a shock—Mayhaps something Jon himself wouldn't suffer.

All the same—reasoned or not—the humiliation of such utter submission burned and clawed in Jon’s chest. This pain was darkest in his lonely hours—without the relieved distraction of directly provoked anger—when Jon truly felt the weight of such despair; felt the way it settled deep in his bones, how it gnawed at his resilience and curried his powerlessness.

And in this way, it was only upon Ramsay’s punctual returns that the steadfastness of Jon’s will would recover in strength—resurfaced rage comfortable in the pointedness of its direction.

Suddenly, the door across from Jon pushed open, tinny in its scraping announcement—the fluorescent lights of the hallway flicking on, harsh and sterile in their dominion.

Ramsay approached then, silhouetted and dark, a leering smile evident as he moved closer.

“Good morning!” he greeted cheerily, his eyes wide.

From below, Jon looked up at Ramsay, gaze steady through the thick of his dark lashes. But he soon dropped his head, shame swirling as he mumbled a reluctant _good morning_ to his lap—the scoffing heat of Ramsay’s pleased approval drawing a blush to Jon’s cheeks.

Ramsay knelt before Jon then, pushing a steaming bowl beneath Jon’s nose. “I’ve brought you porridge this morning,” he said, dipping the spoon and raising it to Jon’s mouth.

Jon eyed the spoon, before sighing bitterly and parting his lips, accepting the breach. The porridge was mealy and warm on his tongue, and Jon swallowed it quickly, as though to wash away the evidence of his obedience—withholding from enjoying its taste.

Behind his back, Jon’s fists were clenched, the curl of his fingernails digging white, crescent marks into the red of his balled palms. But as the spoonfuls continued, his tension slipped unexamined, and Jon soon began to register hints of maple and cinnamon—a combination he’d always enjoyed. He started swallowing faster.

At one point, a line of porridge dribbled down Jon’s chin, catching in the thatch of his beard. Ramsay scooped the trail attentively, collecting its meandering line in the trough of the spoon and tracing its path, all the way to the pink of Jon’s lower lip, dragging across its swell and back through the plump crease of his mouth. Jon closed his eyes and swallowed again, unable to stop the mortified grimace, which pulled on the drop of his face.

“Very good,” Ramsay praised when the bowl had been scraped fully clean, Jon’s temper stirring at the indignation of Ramsay’s clucking treatment. “Now, let’s brush your teeth.”

Ramsay reached around then, unlocking the cuffs. And when Jon wrenched his hand away with an angry glower, knocking Ramsay’s grip aside, he was dealt a shock—the pale tendons of his throat jumping from its torrent.

“Careful,” Ramsay warned afterwards, as Jon glared at the floor, willing himself to calm as he wrung a hand soothingly around the red chap of his freed wrist.

This shock had come as no great surprise, Jon’s punishments as of late having been consistent in keeping with the mild class of his misbehaviors—always flustered impulses or expressions, driven to their culmination on the heat of Jon’s brewing ire, their manifestations thankfully slight enough so as not to stoke much repercussion beyond the biting race of electricity.

And truth be told, Jon didn’t mind these shocks—not really. And in fact, in the moment they would have an almost adverse effect on him—their sensation something Jon had begun to subconsciously chase, the tangible pain stoking his anger and serving as a buzzing reminder that Jon’s fire still burned in its resistance; the sting of discipline doing well in preserving a sense of identity—one of a man who still had a fight left within.

_A man with choice._

But Jon had to be careful, he knew—any fleeting sense of autonomy mattering little as the last reverberations skittered out across the pale of his skin. And it was only then; that Jon would hang his head, cursing himself at the sinking remembrance that the lives of those he loved had been so intricately woven into the hammered balance of his behavior.

And just in case Jon ever forgot, Ramsay was forever eager to employ the subtlety of a reminder—this time no different.

“Your sister’s arms are very skinny,” Ramsay said, fingers pressing harshly into the lean muscle of Jon’s biceps as he prepared to pull Jon to a stand, “Almost as skinny as that sword she’s always carrying around.” He brought up the matter with the same casual air he always did, adding a detail or two that oft left little room for doubt and plenty left over for the crushing grip of Jon’s abjection.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek as he was dragged to his feet, his stomach churning as Ramsay’s unspoken threats washed through him.

_The sword—Needle she called it._

True enough, Arya rarely parted with the thin rapier that Jon had gifted her all those years back, just before he’d moved out. And even then, a wiry girl of eleven, she’d taken to fencing immediately, ten years later a star member of the university’s team—The Faceless Men, as they sometimes called themselves.

_And Gods, but I hated those faceless masks._

“Well…” Ramsay continued, bobbing his head gently on its axis, as though weighing the truth of his words, “Your _cousin_ , I should say. She’s not _really_ your sister...” Ramsay exhaled a chuffing laugh as he pushed Jon forward, towards the sink and toilet—hand splayed flat against the small of Jon’s back. “Is she?”

And when Jon didn’t answer, Ramsay stopped the forced momentum, wrapping his hands possessively around the knots of Jon’s shoulders and leaning in so as to make his presence all the more inescapable. “Hmm?” Ramsay prodded, brows raised and smile tight.

“No,” Jon spat, shoulders sagging. “She’s not.” His response was not but a hoarse whisper—the brown heat in his eyes dulling as, Ramsay, satisfied, guided Jon the final steps forward. 

Jon tugged down the elastic front of his pants then, and relieved himself in a daze, staring absently down at the water of the toilet bowl, disturbed and rippling. And when he had finished, and Ramsay closed the lid, Jon moved wordlessly to sit atop its surface—the porcelain cool through the knit of his joggers—the motions of routine well established.

As the faucet ran, Jon looked down to his hands, silent as he followed the lines of each pale tendon—his skin pink, reflecting in the metal clutch of his manacles. 

And it wasn’t long before Ramsay was kneeling again beside Jon, bended knuckles lifting gently to tilt Jon’s chin.

At the touch, Jon’s eyes tightened shut, but he remained otherwise unmoving as Ramsay pushed the wetted head of a toothbrush through the part of Jon’s lips.

Jon’s thumbs twitched as the plastic of the brush clacked against his teeth, its bristles spreading the paste back and forth, the taste of mint sharp on Jon’s tongue.

It occurred to Jon then that he was indeed capable of performing such a basic task himself, hands resting as they were at his front. The realization had his stomach twisting, shame warming his cheeks as Jon continued to permit the care all the same.

And be it consciously or otherwise, Jon felt himself distancing from all sense of autonomy in this moment, numbing himself to the humiliation, flatly supple in his resignation to the cleaning; his outward fury receding softly into stoic acceptance as his rage settled somewhere deep inside, as if in waiting.

He would suffer this, Jon thought—exchanging his indignance for the nobility of his cause—to protect Arya and Sansa, Bran, Robb, and Rickon... 

_And Ygritte._

_She thinks you left her_ , Ramsay had said. And Jon couldn’t help the small groan then, which skittered up the line of his throat—a stifling ball of growing grief hallowing inside his chest. To Jon’s relief, the noise seemed to go unnoticed, and the brushing stretched on, uninterrupted for several more minutes of silence.

Eventually though, the toothpaste began to froth in Jon’s mouth, foam spilling from its edges and down the planes of his chin. Jon’s tongue burned, and so he was soon lifted, maneuvered to a stand, and pulled towards the sink, feeling very much like a man moving within the fog of a dream.

_A nightmare…_

Gripping the ceramic, Jon’s lips folded into a sneer as he spit into the drain, its force angry and splattering.

And when next, Ramsay pushed a cup of water into Jon’s hands, Jon’s brow furrowed atop eyes wide in their wary confusion. He looked up to meet Ramsay’s stare.

“Go ahead,” Ramsay reassured, as though urging a child to take its first steps.

And so slowly, Jon did, cocking his elbow and raising the glass. Jon drained its contents in one, gulping motion—the water cool and refreshing as it ballooned in bursts through the slip of his teeth and down the slick of his throat.

When he had finished, Jon pursed his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the discomforting throb of Ramsay’s observation enclosing. All the same, Jon was thankful for this small degree of granted freedom—to have taken drink by his own hand—passing the cup back to Ramsay with a wordless nod.

But as the glass exchanged hands, Jon caught sight of his reflection. He hesitated, staring back at the face, skin all mottled and marred by the pink of scrapes and bruises. Jon’s jaw fell ever so slightly, the unsettled recognition pulling its weight as he looked on—meeting the worn, brown gaze of the man in the mirror; the same gaze that soon flared, flashing angrily (albeit briefly), at the suddenness of Ramsay’s renewed touch.

Jon was pulled away then, Ramsay leading him by the elbow and back towards his place on the wall. 

And when they reached it, Jon sighed inwardly, lowering himself without need for a command and grimacing as his hands were secured, once more, behind his back. But still, Jon daren’t make a noise, tight-lipped and stoic, refusing to give Ramsay the satisfaction of hearing his vocalized discomfort.

The strings and bones of Jon’s body soon snapped back into the sliding grooves of his arranged restraint, settling into the chronicity of their respective positions—the reemerged pain settling with it.

“Well,” Ramsay said, straightening as he clapped his hands together, as if excited to finalize the morning’s performance. “I’ll see you at dinner, Jon Snow. Skinner’s making stew tonight!”

And with that, Ramsay left, closing the door behind him, the purling of his merriment still ringing in Jon’s ears.

Jon ran his tongue along the smooth of his teeth then, sucking dejectedly as he closed his eyes and rolled his head along the bricks of the wall.

He stayed like that for several seconds—several minutes or hours—before opening his eyes to look up, following the ceiling cracks with his gaze—their winding direction reminding Jon of the constellations he and Ned used to observe together, on late summer nights when the crickets were whirring and the air was sweet. Ned would lift him up by the armpits then, holding Jon to the telescope as Jon’s small hand closed around the shaft of its eyepiece. Jon’s knees would oft knock together as he wriggled in his uncle’s hold, vying for a better angle and mewling with delight whenever a comet arced its way across the vignette of his vision. 

And as it was now, staring at the ceiling, Jon had found his own shapes—tracing an imagined wolf, a small squid, and a large X from the ambiguous patterns of the paint’s disrepair, their imagined forms interlocking disjointedly.

***

By Jon’s count, it had now been around two weeks since his capture, and things had continued very much the same—his pain growing by the day.

Jon’s body was weak, his muscles groaning in protest as he twisted his neck, as if the motion might dislodge him firmly from reality. But as it was, the movement did no such thing, the bones of Jon’s neck merely popping, the sound sharp and sudden amidst the steadfast silence.

Jon’s shoulders ached, his lips dry and his belly full as he shifted his hips in an attempt to get more comfortable—settling himself for the night. It was over an hour ago that Ramsay had brought Jon his dinner, and now, properly watered and fed, Jon’s eyelids were growing heavy, the relief of sleep beginning to claw at his awareness.

Jon shut his eyes, sheltering himself then in the comfort of a memory.

He recalled the time he’d been sick, flushed with a fever and wrapped up on the couch—when Ygritte had called off work to stay by his side.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Jon had said, scowling as he sniffled.

“O’ course ya do,” Ygritte insisted, pushing his feet to the side and sitting on the couch’s edge with a scoff.

He shifted grudgingly, to make space.

“I brought you some water,” Ygritte said then, grinning as she handed Jon the cup.

_And Gods, but I'd been thirsty._

“Thanks.”

Ygritte watched him drink, then taking the emptied glass and resting it on the table before spreading out, nestling into Jon’s side—her breath stirring the ends of his curls.

“You’ll get sick too,” he warned.

“I don’t mind,” Ygritte answered, fingers tracing the threadbare collar of Jon’s shirt. “Then you can be the one to fetch me water.”

Jon fell asleep with a soft grunt then, the cold of the stones against his back distant as he lost himself to dreams.

***

Jon bit down on his lip, watching as Ygritte pressed a kiss to his skin, just beside his cock, which rested, hot and heavy against the flat of his belly—its tip flushed pink and pointed towards him. Lifting her head briefly then, Ygritte met Jon’s gaze, rolling his length in the palm of her hand, a thin line of liquid drooling; arcing its way along his stomach as she did so.

Jon swallowed thickly, brows furrowing and mouth falling open as Ygritte licked, tongue dancing along the milky vein that stretched all the way from the round of his balls to the cleft of his head. And it was only then that she resumed her kisses, down the sparse trail of hair smattered beneath his navel and all the way to the base of his shaft, before taking his cock in hand, wrapping pale fingers around its pulsing girth.

Jon’s breath stilted, a strangled groan working its way from the back of his throat as she angled his cock and swallowed it whole.

“Ygritte.”

And his eyes nearly rolled back in his head as she moved—the heat of her mouth fully overwhelming in its pull. And as Ygritte bobbed up and down, Jon felt like she was drawing something from deep within him, syphoning it from his core. Heat bloomed and tumbled in his belly, the ache dropping quickly to his balls, throbbing heavier and heavier as she continued the steady flux of her bouncing swallows.

“Ygritte… Ygritte…”

Jon’s skin was flushed, and as he twisted his fingers gently in her hair, the motion stirred up the smell of her shampoo—the chalk pastel of rose-petals and clear water—its scent cool and drifting, like velvet ice. It always set his blood afire, and this time was no different, the smell rushing Jon towards his peak.

And then, just as Jon was at his edge, teetering on the humming cusp of climax, his awareness shifted—the lucidity of sensation transforming instead into the thick weight of real, pained arousal.

As if in protest, Jon’s eyes screwed shut as he was dragged slowly from his slumber—whining as his consciousness returned, cock rigid and heart racing.

His head pounded with the clouded crawl of waking confusion, but with one goal budding clear amidst the haze, Jon went to reach between his legs—to finish himself off in a stroke or two.

_It wouldn’t take much._

But the tightening of metal around his wrists caused his heart to sink.

Jon’s eyes shot open then, as he stifled a groan, its sound born of mortified disappointment. His heart was racing and his legs lay bowed and parted, the fabric of Jon’s pants tented, grey and straining—a testament to the strength of his arousal.

And it was only then that Jon noticed Ramsay, standing several paces away, an eager grin cracked, exposing the points of his teeth.

Jon’s blood froze, his body stilling completely as he met the rapacious gaze of his captor, Jon’s own eyes wide—dark with the calefaction of his vulnerability. 

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself, “the man stated with eager amusement, taking one slow step forward as the words lilted off his tongue.

These words prompted movement on Jon’s part, a desperate surge of direction jolting through his body. Jon immediately closed his legs, pulling them to his chest, as though to shield himself from Ramsay’s leering observation.

“You needn’t hide it, Jon Snow,” Ramsay said, chuckling.

And how Jon hated the blush, which colored his cheeks in that moment—the heat of his prudent shame ever obvious; disloyal to his pride, as it had been with Ygritte in the early days, when every flustered flutter of his lashes had only been more cause for her teasing.

“After all, it’s only natural.” Ramsay continued, moving closer. “You’re a man,” he said, cocking his head with interest as he neared, circling Jon, as if deciding how to proceed. “Men have _needs_.”

Jon willed himself not to wince, his chest a betrayal to his collectedness—its lean cage rising and falling with the growing weight of his dread and the residual beat of arousal.

“Show me,” Ramsay said, his smile light and his tone one of entertained patience. And while the request might have caught Jon fully off guard a week ago, today, it only mildly surprised him, Jon having learned by now to expect a certain degree of humiliating depravity at the hands of his captor. 

But all the same, Jon grit his teeth, lips pursing into an affronted sneer as anger took hold. And Jon himself barely registered as he began to shake his head back and forth in answer, eyes flashing.

“No,” Jon said then, his body tight and his voice but a hoarse command, brewing panic harsh around its edges—resistance as rash as it was desperate.

“ _No_?” Ramsay mirrored back, his mild surprise evident, and even humored. But when Jon remained unrelenting, Ramsay’s amusement all but disappeared, his eyes slitting as he dropped to a crouch, coming face-to-face with Jon—his elbows resting sharp on the bend of his knees. “I’ve been watching you squirm for the past five minutes.” Ramsay taunted menacingly, eyes darting across Jon’s features. “Now, _show me_.”

But Jon remained silent, a mask of anger hardening his resolve as he prepared for the inevitability of a shock.

_It's too much—this. I've endured bathing and pissing, shitting and feeding and dressing—but this, this time Ramsay pushes too far._

And here, Jon’s reticence only made Ramsay grow colder, malice brewing at Jon’s stubborn disobedience. But Jon’s protests were not permitted for much longer.

“You were calling her name, just now— _moaning_ it— _Ygritte_.” Ramsay said then, his eyes sparking knowingly on his pause. “She was putting up flyers today—flyers for you,” he said, pointing.

And Jon hated how Ramsay said her name, the syllables mealy and clicking as they tittered from his tongue. But at her mention Jon’s face softened all the same, the reminder of Ramsay’s spanning jurisdiction causing his stomach to flip, and serving as enough to goad him into reluctant submission. 

_For Ygritte’s sake…_

Jon’s shoulders fell then, embarrassment and powerlessness stirred; knowing he would suffer the humiliation of Ramsay’s attention—that he’d do anything.

_Besides, he only means to look._

Jon bid his muscles to relax then, realizing that Ramsay had been speaking all the while.

“… _MISSING_ ,” Ramsay jeered, stretching out his hands so as to mime the announcement’s boldness. He scoffed then, his mirth returning. “I barely recognized you in the photo. You were smiling… Well, _almost_ …” 

And when Jon said nothing in response, Ramsay shifted his gaze pointedly to Jon’s tucked legs, before raising his brows keenly, as if to remind Jon that his earlier demand yet remained unmet.

Jon swallowed, its force dense and gulping with all the weight of a scratching mewl—any stale hope that Ramsay might have forgotten the request collapsing on the heat of Jon’s shaking exhale.

_He won’t ask again._

And so, heart dropping to his stomach, Jon slowly began to unfold his legs, exposing himself once more to Ramsay’s scrutiny—modesty a luxury he couldn’t afford.

And when Jon had fully complied, it took all his strength to sit still, tendons tight and legs lying flat. Then, slowly, Jon looked down, so as to assess the evidence of his display. And while Jon had indeed begun to soften, the ache in his balls still persisted—the soft fabric of his pants remaining tightened from the intensity of his dreaming; an obviousness certainly not lost on either man. Jon’s eyes closed softly at the sight.

“Very good,” Ramsay praised then, his docility transforming immediately into feverish momentum, as he wrenched Jon’s knees apart, so as to make space.

And Jon bit down on his lip in dismay as Ramsay hooked his fingers into the waistband of Jon’s pants, pulling them swiftly to Jon’s knees. He was gentler with Jon’s shorts, tugging at the elastic, and pulling the material slowly from the catch of Jon’s semi-hard member, which, when freed, bobbed momentarily in the air before teetering to fall flatly against the crease of his pale thigh.

“Ah, there we are.” Ramsay said, humming as he traced a finger along its swell, the caress soon giving way to the weight of Ramsay’s whole palm. Jon clenched his eyes tighter at the pressure, and while he had expected Ramsay to look, to touch even, he was fully unprepared for when Ramsay wrapped his hand around Jon’s cock and gave it three quick, purposeful jerks—Jon’s body nothing more than a powerless plaything in Ramsay’s hands.

Jon grunted in protest then, eyes flicking to Ramsay’s, briefly, registering the manic momentum in their blue—the growing truth of Ramsay’s intention heating Jon’s alarm.

And so frantically, Jon kicked out, hoping to dislodge the man’s grip. But Ramsay blocked Jon’s struggle, catching his ankle and slamming it to the ground—his grasp on Jon’s sensitive flesh only tightening.

“Let me tell you what will happen if you fight me, bastard,” Ramsay seethed, the clench of his fist but a mere representation. And as Jon yielded, Ramsay’s fist began to move in time with his speech, teeth bared—grinning as he continued his possessive motions.

“I’ll take her, your wildling,” Ramsay twisted and pulled, his hand deft. “Just as I did you… I imagine she’ll be a challenge,” Ramsay laughed, his strokes languid in keeping with the ease of his tone. “But I like a challenge.”

Jon’s body was rigid, his arms trembling as he sat, trying his best to stay detached from the sensations of his body and the words in his ears. 

A time passed before Ramsay spoke again. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever flayed anyone?” He asked smoothly, no doubt knowing the answer. 

And if Jon had been clearer of mind he might have stalled again, wondering once more how such horrors had befallen him—who this man was and why he was doing this. But as it was, Ramsay’s touches were swiftly draining the blood from Jon’s head, and he could only stay still and silent, quaking in Ramsay’s grasp.

Ramsay chuckled. “No, you wouldn’t have… I’ll start slow with her—peel a few bits first… then remove a few others—a finger, a nipple…”

Nausea settled then, and Jon couldn’t say whether the feeling was spurred more by Ramsay’s threats or by his own self-disgust at the steady thickening of his cock. And as though in a daze, Jon found himself terrifyingly mesmerized; watching Ramsay’s hand as it pumped up and down—watching the rhythm, the pale hug of foreskin repeatedly swallowing the head of his prick.

“I imagine she’ll scream— _beg_!” Ramsay’s eyes glinted. “They all do in the end… And mark me, Jon Snow, should you forget your place,” his voice dropped in timber, “she _will_ find her end… they _all_ will.”

Jon’s head clouded, scrambling to process the terror of Ramsay’s words. And it was only then, he realized (much to his repulsed horror), that his cock had returned to its full-mast.

“There!” Ramsay announced, jolly at the sight. “Not so hard, is it? Well,” he chuckled, “so to speak!”

Jon’s mouth fell open as Ramsay increased the speed of his strokes; Jon’s curls trembling as he shook. “Stop,” Jon pleaded, its sound whispered and hoarse, his thighs beginning to quiver. But Jon’s appeal went either unnoticed or unaddressed.

“She has nice skin, you know?” Ramsay continued mercilessly, watching Jon for a reaction. “I’d be almost loath to rid her of it… You have nice skin too.”

Jon shut his eyes as Ramsay chortled, heat pooling in his stomach, balls heavy and heart hammering.

“You’re practically prettier than she is—far too pretty to cut up.”

Jon was breathing from his nose now—air escaping in sharp forceful pants, Ramsay’s ministrations fully overwhelming in both their shame and sensitivity.

And Ramsay’s voice grew distant then, as if he were lost in thought. “Your eyelashes are thicker than any whore’s I’ve ever seen—your lips redder.” Ramsay reached out, startling Jon as the pad of his thumb made contact with Jon’s lips. Ramsay then began to trace his finger along the bow of Jon’s open mouth, the grooves of his skin catching and pulling at the plump of Jon’s flesh. “And your hair…” Ramsay hummed in amused appreciation as he dropped his hand.

The husk of a traitorous moan tumbled from Jon’s lips just then—as Ramsay swirled a thumb atop Jon’s seeping tip, his sliding grip now slick from Jon’s excitement.

“Do you like that—when people call you pretty?”

Jon opened his eyes, looking to Ramsay as though to argue otherwise, the wet agitation of Jon’s gaze meeting Ramsay’s stare. And Jon’s heart hammered as he glared, angry, anguished, and aroused all in equal measure.

But for his part, Ramsay’s expression read something different—something unknown and churning in the ice of his eyes, something beyond cruelty and control. Its heat was something Jon daren’t seek to uncover, and so instead Jon turned his gaze.

But Jon didn’t have time to dwell, for Ramsay soon began to pump faster, causing Jon’s face to scrunch into a miserable grimace. Ramsay’s pulls weren’t like before, like when Ygritte would do this, her touches slow and building. No, now Ramsay’s jerks were driving, as though moving with one goal in mind.

In response, the muscles of Jon’s belly began to twitch and flutter, tight and flat—his throat aching with the clench of his approaching release, its swell about to burst.

But the fruition of Jon’s finish was dammed, Ramsay’s fingers closing harshly around the base of Jon’s member. Jon’s eyes flew open then, blown dark and vulnerable, his breath hitching.

To which Ramsay laughed giddily. “This didn’t take long at all! You are… _eager_ … aren’t you?” And when Jon said nothing, Ramsay spoke again. “Should I just leave you like this?”

A strangled noise escaped Jon then, the rawness of anguished agreement falling from his lips—anything to prevent the full completion of his defilement. 

But Ramsay ignored the sound. “I could do it, you know?” He laughed. “I can do anything I want to you.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot on Jon’s face. “You’re _nothing_ here, Jon Snow. Do you understand me?”

Jon panted, sore and quaking in the encompassing agony of his shamed arousal—Ramsay’s words sounding slow and far-off.

Ramsay clenched his hand tighter then, causing Jon to whimper. “ _Do you understand me_?”

And when Jon nodded, the movement slow and slight, Ramsay grinned. “Good,” he said, settling back and renewing the strokes on Jon’s cock.

And despite the fever of his protest, Jon’s body simply couldn’t help but respond to Ramsay’s final, wringing pull. His climax crashed abruptly then, starting on the cusp of a helpless gasp—hot and hitching, before the sound transformed fully into one of drawn, tortured grunting, climbing in anguish as it clawed its way from the back of Jon’s throat.

Jon spilled white and thick on his shirt, hips stuttering against his will as Ramsay jerked him still. And all too quickly, these stutters turned to groaning twitches and squirms, Ramsay continuing mercilessly, each slippery stroke sending jolts of pain through Jon’s sensitive flesh.

But eventually, Ramsay’s touches halted, and the man moved back, wiping his hand on Jon’s shirt with a chuckle, and rising wordlessly to a stand.

And now, with the heat of Jon’s orgasm fully subsided, it was only shame that filled its place—chest heaving under Ramsay’s observation. Jon shut his eyes then—his cock spent and red and wilting in the open. He had never felt more exposed, listening as Ramsay’s footsteps retreated, the door slamming behind him.

Jon sat, a shaking mess as he tried to grapple with his emotions—far too raw to process—his throat tight.

And when Ramsay returned a minute later, Jon’s eyes snapped open, wary of what he might next have to endure.

The initial sight was not comforting.

Ramsay stood before Jon, a long metal chain coiled in his hands. Jon moved to straighten himself then—to regain some dignity of presentation despite the fullness of his vulnerability.

“Don’t get up,” Ramsay laughed, smiling at his joke as he kneeled again before Jon. “I’m going to let you off the wall now.”

Jon’s brows furrowed, looking to Ramsay in disbelief.

“But you’ll have to promise to behave.”

And Jon said nothing as Ramsay began to uncuff his hands, the man’s touches lingering and indifferent, as though nothing had just transpired—a man amused at the totality of his conquest.

And lax-limbed, Jon let himself be moved, his arms listless in Ramsay’s hold. He watched as Ramsay clicked a padlock then, attaching one end of the chain to the loop in the bricks and the other to Jon’s handcuffs before refastening them at Jon’s front, the ache in Jon’s shoulders mercifully clearing.

First thing, Jon quickly tucked his cock back into his pants, adjusting his hips against the hard concrete of the floor. But as he looked down, Jon caught sight of his release, silvery and drying against the contrast of his black t-shirt. 

He felt he might be sick in that moment, chocking back a sob, its sound cut off by the cheer of Ramsay’s voice.

“There! Now you can move about the room—” Ramsay said excitedly, gesturing to the opposite corner, “—sleep in the bed.”

Jon looked to the pallet, his fists furling and unfurling in his lap as his indignance resurfaced—all the injustice and shame surging through his blood, his lips falling into an angry glower.

But this shift did not go unnoticed by Ramsay, who knelt down once more, his glare one of warning as he took a fistful of Jon’s hair, pulling back and exposing the pale of Jon’s neck, forcing their connected gaze. “Just remember, Jon Snow,” Ramsay started. “—Remember the rules of our game.”

And when Ramsay released his hold, Jon let out an exhausted sigh, his fists relaxing as he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to half_life always and forever.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussions of sexual assault/rape, use of razors/scissors

Jon stalked over to the sink, chains rattling from the force of his resolute steps, their metal links jostling and scraping along the concrete beneath him.

When he reached the basin’s countertop, Jon reached out, wrenching the faucet’s handle; his teeth grinding as the water began to rush from its spout. And moving seamlessly, he wet his hands then, cupping his palms and catching the stream, splashing its swell to the front of his shirt before rubbing the fabric together. Face pale, he scoured and kneaded, vigorously cleaning away the results of his prior degradation—all the while damming the shame, which clenched in his belly; instead, focusing flatly on the task before him.

Eyes downcast and unfocused as he worked, Jon made a point not to look in the mirror, lest he find himself gazing back at his own tempered brown eyes—the dark of their hold no doubt still damp from the heat of his stolen lust.

But reflection or not, Jon’s emotions soon stirred—his revulsion bubbling thicker.

Jon stilled. And in that moment, fabric slick between his trembling fingers, Jon had half a mind to rip the shirt in two—to throw its tattered rags to the floor and be done with it. But he could already picture Ramsay’s amusement at the resulting sight—Jon bare-chested and seething—the thought alone enough to prevent Jon from making its fruition a reality. And so sneering, Jon continued all the same, grinding at the coarse cotton weave and dissolving the grip of its memory.

When the shirt was more or less clean—its wet cloth sticking, marbling the lean lines of Jon’s torso, Jon dropped his hands, fingers fidgeting with anticipation.

Then, steeling himself with a grunt, Jon pulled down the front of his trousers, his cheeks flushing at the sight. It set Jon’s determination hardening. And on the trailing ache of a sigh, he collected another shallow handful of water, before biting his lip and reaching down—his cock pink and slippery as he took hold. Jon’s attentions were rough and hurried, his wetted fingers moving quicker than they otherwise might have. Each pull anew brought a wince to Jon’s face, but he stayed his course, his grip driving in its purpose—the sensitized pins of his tender skin only serving as tangible signs of his task’s progression, every stroke of Jon’s hand working as though to scrub away all remnants of Ramsay’s touch.

And when he had finished this work to the best of his appraisal, Jon washed his hands thoroughly, splashing his face with water before turning to face the pile of blankets across the room.

He stood for a moment, swaying with the slight of his uncertainty—not knowing quite what to do with himself. The swipe of Jon’s tongue poked out between pink lips; just as he released a softened exhale, realizing it would take not but ten steps to reach the pallet. After all, the chain was long enough to exercise such a movement—such choice.

And so, he began to walk slowly then, socks padding in wary steps, afraid that if he were to move faster, the blankets might disappear before his eyes—their presence nothing but a mere mirage.

But as it was, he was soon standing over them—a thin mat, a threadbare throw, and a white pillow, its case’s material untouched, still bearing the lines of its past ironing.

Muscles rigid, Jon lowered himself into a crouch, resting elbows on knees as he stared at the pallet, brows slightly knitted above eyes dark and restless. It was several more seconds before Jon extended a hand, swallowing thickly as he ran his fingers gently across the blanket’s material.

Mind foggy, he folded to his knees then, shifting his hips to the mat and stretching out his legs. Jon draped the blanket across his lap before slowly moving—leaning, so as to rest his back against the coverings and his head atop the pillow.

Immediately, Jon began to feel the steady buzz of pain, his tendons groaning as his body settled, as though each bone and muscle were remembering how it felt to lie still and outstretched. Jon closed his eyes.

And when the tremors started, Jon was helpless to stop them.

_Ramsay did it because he could._

The barrel of Jon’s chest began to rise faster, expanding and deflating with the force of his growing distress as his memories mounted, soon washing over him. Jon could see it still, Ramsay’s glinting eyes, hear his own ripping groans, and feel Ramsay’s hand, tight and driving as it worked up and down, up and down.

_Gods…_

Jon had been helpless to Ramsay’s touches—moaning and shaking. He screwed his eyes tighter, choking back the dry sob that welled in his throat as he turned on his side. Jon thought he might be sick then; his lips buckling on a wince as he pulled the blankets round his shoulders and furled his legs to his chest.

Save himself, it had only before been Ygritte who had touched him in such a way—her pale grip wringing willing excitement from his body. True, there had almost been a girl a year or two before—one of Theon’s friends, Ros. Emboldened by liquor, she had approached Jon at a party, pushing him to the wall and rubbing the heel of her hand along the outside of Jon’s jeans. Jon had pushed her away gently, excusing himself with embarrassment as Theon jeered behind him; Ros kissing at his neck, her long arms already wrapped around Theon’s shoulders.

 _I’ll risk no part in carelessly making a child_ , Jon had thought then, his fears overwhelming any desire. But of course Ygritte had come into his life soon enough and everything had changed thereafter. 

Still, now, Jon could hear his own ragged breaths pounding in his ears, the memory of Ramsay’s voice echoing all the while. Jon pressed his forehead to the cold of the stones, his lips trembling and his body tight.

And fully exhausted, the tepid fragments of Jon’s anger soon eroded into the curdled fever of his self-disgust. _Eager_ , Ramsay had said.

_Eager._

Jon let out a pained gasp, its fullness clogging deep in his chest.

_But what could I do?_

And again, Jon didn’t have an answer—not for any of this. And amidst the pain of his confusion, all Jon could see was the truth of Ramsay’s overwhelming control—the keenness of his possession and the wholeness of Jon’s own helplessness in Ramsay’s grasp.

***

Jon stirred slowly, the gentle weight of the blanket warm around his chest as he shifted, swallowing the smack of his lips—just as a babe might. And fully lost in his waking comfort, Jon reached out then, as if to pull Ygritte’s body flush against his own. But when groping hands met only air, Jon’s eyes snapped open—the concrete hard and unyielding beneath him.

He sat up at once, loath to allow the chance for Ramsay to see him so vulnerable—hair tousled and cheeks warm. But to Jon’s steadying relief, Ramsay was not yet in the room, and Jon found himself exhaling a shaky sigh, stretching his legs and popping his knees.

Settling, the events of yesterday morning came flooding back to Jon, and he grimaced, sniffing stiffly as he rose to a stand, tugging at the hem of his shirt before moving to walk across the room.

It felt strange, such autonomy. But Jon stifled any joy he might have felt over it, moving instead with expressionless purpose.

And then, with a habit he might have possessed in days past, Jon conducted his business—using the toilet, washing his face, and brushing his teeth; pressing his thumbs at the base of the toothpaste’s plastic tube and pushing gently, spreading its contents along the brush’s bristles, his smooth method a learned contrast to Ygritte’s carelessness.

When he had finished, Jon turned, scraping his hand along his beard and halting, unsure whether to return to the pallet or to explore the rest of the space—to move around, pace, or count the bricks in the wall. For no reason other than _because he could._

But his decisions were halted by the heavy groan of the hallway’s metal door and the hummed flicker of harsh light, which accompanied it, announcing Ramsay’s arrival.

At the sound, a sickened rage immediately descended upon Jon, his jaw stiffening and his stomach tightening. This anger was cold and absolute, pooling deep within him, its chill diffusing through his blood. And as Jon listened to the footsteps of Ramsay’s approach, he tensed—standing stock still as a loathsome sneer pulled at the bow of his lips, his nose curling from the motion.

But Jon’s fury spiked all the more at the sight of Ramsay’s taut grin, the man’s lips creased around teeth sharp and pallid. A righteous malice flashed in Jon’s eyes then, as he reached down to thread his chain’s links through his fingers, fisting the cold clutch of their length. And in that moment, Jon could see himself—wrapping the chain around Ramsay’s neck and pulling tight, the sharp grip of its steel squeezing skin white, turned red, turned blue.

But Jon’s zeal was soon flattened, as he thought on Ramsay’s words.

_“She will find her end… They all will.”_

Jon’s shoulders fell then, the chain slipping from his hands to dance once more at his sides. And docile again, he bowed his head, the heated shame of disappointment masked dark behind the brim of his lashes. Ramsay had made his threats clear, and for the sake of those he loved, Jon’s pliancy was no longer to be gambled, his spirit deflating as the selfless nobility of his resolve hardened.

“Ah!” Ramsay said cheerily. “And how are you enjoying your room, bastard?”

In response, Jon simply stood silent and tempered, his feet planted and his jaw tensed with stoic conviction—the sullen line of his lips familiar in its firmness.

Jon had learned such reticence early on in his youth, swallowing his cries at the skinning of his knees or the teasing of a schoolyard bully. The other children—his _cousins_ , as Ramsay had been quick to remind him—had always had Catelyn to run to. In those times, Jon would watch from afar as she dried their tears and hushed their wails; rubbing her hand, pale and graceful, along the arcs of their small, trembling backs. But of course, Jon himself was never afforded the same love—the sleeves of his sweaters a testament to his self-reliance, their knitted weave oft sporting the coated crust of his snotted tears, a repeated result of Jon having roughly run an arm across his reddened little face—no mother figure to soothe his whimpering. Though as Jon grew, he learned to quell those tears altogether, finding the ease of this direction as necessary as it was defining.

His Aunt Catelyn had always resented him—perhaps for his mother’s mistake—for running off with a married man and getting pregnant. Or perhaps she resented the extra mouth to feed or Jon’s melancholy disposition—or perhaps something else entirely. Either way, she was not an outright cruel woman, Jon had always thought, but her distance proved cruelty in itself.

“I asked you a question,” Ramsay said, his tone colder than it had been. And it was then that Jon noticed the towel strung about his shoulder, the bowl of lather, the razor and the scissors, their handle looped loosely around one of Ramsay’s bony fingers.

Jon sighed with angry understanding and looked to the ceiling, collecting himself for what he would endure. He met Ramsay’s gaze then. “It’s cozy,“ Jon answered finally, his voice low and rolling, bitter in the fray of its sarcasm.

“Good,” Ramsay answered, grinning as he took a step closer—seemingly pleased to have Jon playing along.

And as Ramsay closed the distance between them, Jon realized for the first time, that both men were of roughly equal stature; Ramsay’s heeled boots his only edge on Jon’s height. Fingers fidgeting, Jon let the thought pass.

After all, this was the first time Jon had seen Ramsay since the following morning—since Ramsay had _done what he did_.

The past evening, one of Ramsay’s men, Skinner, had come with dinner, sliding a dish unceremoniously to Jon’s feet. The man’s pocked face had contorted with cruel laughter then, as one lone, thick sausage rolled around on the plate’s surface—the sight taunting in the crudity of its allusion. And it took all Jon’s self-control not to kick the plate away right then—to send the sausage skittering and the plate shattering. But instead Jon had merely rolled over in his blanket, scowling as he shut his eyes and waited for Skinner to leave. Still this morning, the plate remained unmoved.

“I expect you’ve been taking care of yourself,” Ramsay said, his tone supervisory in its authority.

Jon nodded slowly.

“Water?” Ramsay’s eyes darted to the sink. “Food?” His lips caught themselves in the ring of his delight then, stretching into a responsive smile as he noticed the plate in the corner. “I see you haven’t touched your sausage,” he said, relishing in his feigned disappointment—knowing well the shame behind Jon’s abstaining.

Jon cleared his throat sourly. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“No?” Ramsay’s smile tightened falsely. “Well, no matter!” He chuckled, gesturing towards the toilet. “Have a seat!”

Twisting his mouth, Jon did as Ramsay bid, taking several steps back, and settling himself.

And when Ramsay approached, moving to stand over Jon, Jon held his stare—Jon’s anger the answer to Ramsay’s manic delight. But Jon’s stillness soon broke, when Ramsay reached out to touch him. On instinct, Jon jerked back; an indignant growl trapped behind teeth bared.

Ramsay clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Oh?” he asked in false surprise. “But only yesterday you were so…“ he laughed, as though sheepish in his retelling, leaning down to whisper bitten words in Jon’s ear, “—So… _keen?_ ”

And while Jon’s stomach churned with shame, his face expressed only his fury—lips parting as he cut his eyes to the side, to glare with the clipped force of his contempt. Still, Jon said nothing, swallowing his tongue as Ramsay hummed a chuckle, dropping his hand to rest on Jon’s shoulders.

Ramsay pressed the pads of his fingers to the base of Jon’s throat next, pushing into Jon’s skin with the same possessiveness of the previous morning. And then, starting at the dip of Jon’s clavicles, Ramsay split his fingers, slowly walking them along the stretching sinew of Jon’s neck, and effectively tilting Jon’s chin back—the pressure increasing with each of his lilting touches.

Ramsay closed his hand around the band of Jon’s collar, the plastic digging into Jon’s skin—pink lines pressed in pale skin. He patted Jon’s face lightly then, reddening the flat of his cheek with every patronizing hit. “Good,” Ramsay said before stepping back and turning to run the faucet. “Now stay still.”

Jon winced, his frown soon falling into the blankness of obedience—his head lolled back and his neck exposed.

“We were very close yesterday, weren’t we?” Ramsay started, tracing the angle of Jon’s chin before pinching several twists of hair between his fingers. Jon caught the flash of scissors from the corner of his eye, their blades fracturing the fluorescent light as they opened and closed, trimming Jon’s beard. “And I couldn’t help but notice...” Ramsay continued, snipping the scissors several more times. He paused then, cocking his head to hold Jon’s stare, “You looked… _messy_.”

Jon could feel his teeth grinding in his skull, his jaw clenching under Ramsay’s attention.

To which Ramsay merely laughed, his fingers curling. “But it’s nothing a shave can’t fix!” He resumed the grooming then, clipping the length from Jon’s beard until all that was left were each follicle’s stubbed end—Jon doing his best to passively tolerate such care, fists clenched and toes twisting through the weighted silence.

And when Ramsay was finished, he put down the scissors and busied himself at the sink; water running as ceramic and metal were clanked and clattered.

Jon stared at the ceiling in the meantime, collecting himself; flinching at the next touch, as Ramsay began to run the lathered brush along Jon’s jawline, coating the coarse stubble, which now covered Jon’s chin. Ramsay flitted the soft bristles, whistling with careless satisfaction as he covered the lower half of Jon’s face—flecks of foam sticking in the dips of Jon’s nose and to the round of his ears.

And afterwards, Ramsay made a show of readying the razor, dancing its gleaming blade before Jon, who trailed its oscillating motion with eyes burnished by growing unease.

But those eyes soon closed as Ramsay took his first draw, scraping the razor along Jon’s skin; pushing hair and froth from its path. The metal was cool as it travelled slowly up the length of Jon’s throat, parallel to the thick tendon that flexed and jumped as Jon willed his body to calm.

_It would only take one slip of the hand… But he won’t—he won’t do it. It would be too easy._

And though Jon knew it to be true, the thought was of little comfort. For it was a special kind of submission, this—the docility of allowing a blade to one’s neck—one that sent the heat of tired humiliation buzzing through Jon’s blood; his life so delicately and _willingly_ balanced in Ramsay’s hold. And while in this moment, Jon was fairly certain Ramsay would not slit his throat, there was still no telling what else Ramsay might do.

“Tell me a story, bastard,” Ramsay said, then.

And had the circumstance been different, Jon might have laughed—the request absurd as it pulled Jon from the shame of his reveries. For, those who knew Jon Snow knew better than to demand a tale from his tongue. But as it was, Jon simply sighed, the razor scratching once more across his cheek before he dared to speak. “I’m not good with words,” Jon said, his tone weary in its forced remorse as he fought to stay still.

“Try,” Ramsay urged, rinsing the blade before leaning back over and scouring its edge along the taut stretch of Jon’s neck.

Jon stilled his swallows, waiting for Ramsay to be finished until he spoke in answer. “I—“ Jon started then, wetting his lips on the trailing end of a curt sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

And only when Ramsay’s grin widened in thought, did Jon regret the directed control his words had relinquished. “Tell me about Ygritte.” Ramsay urged, scraping the blade once more across Jon’s face.

“You seem to know everything already,” Jon said tiredly, his voice cracking with grudging dissent—muscles tight in his effort to remain motionless.

Ramsay hummed his agreement before pointing to Jon’s chest with a smile. “But I want to hear it from _you_.”

“Hear what?” Jon asked, his voice straining as the razor was pushed along the swell of his cheek, its curving blade reflecting the restlessness of Jon’s dark curls, silhouetted as they were in the harsh white light.

“Tell me about her.”

Jon exhaled then, his chest collapsing from the frustrated force of his breath as he struggled for his next words. “She… she has red hair,” he said at last.

Ramsay lowered his hand then, looking to Jon with all the mocking heat of his disappointment. “Yes, bastard, I know that.” He held his palms up, flourishing his hands as though prompting the flow of Jon’s telling. “But what’s she like? Is she smart?” He placed the blade back to Jon’s neck. “Does she make you laugh?”

“Aye,” Jon answered. “Yes—both.” 

The effort of his speaking was not lost on Ramsay, who smiled knowingly before continuing with his prodding. “And how did you meet her?”

And fully flattened by his lack of agency, Jon reluctantly resigned himself to speak then. Slowly widening his legs, he settled flexing hands atop stiffened knees. And trying his best to focus, Jon sighed and began his story.

“She’d been pounding on the station door for days… Asking to see the Chief,” Jon started, pausing, flustered, as Ramsay dragged the blade again across his skin “—had some nasty run-ins with our men—up in the northern projects. Said they’d been taunting the Free-folk; calling their people names and the like.” The razor scratched along Jon’s chin and he waited once more, bouncing his leg nervously, the memory slowly seeping through Jon’s mind as Ramsay traced his jawline.

And then, as Ramsay ran the blade beneath the tap, Jon continued, snared by the necessary telling of his story. “It was the dead of winter—I was worried she might freeze. So I went out to talk to her.” He swallowed a dry laugh. “At first I thought she was going to hit me.” Jon could feel his words beginning to flow with ease, the recollections comfortable in their retelling. And part of him thought to stop, but it felt good—remembering.

“And did she?”

“No,” Jon shook his head with clenched control, watching as the blade trailed the line of his neck one more time, its handle tapping against Jon’s collar with the motion. “She just started yelling and I just—I just listened… And when she’d finished, I told her it wasn’t right, what the men had said… And that I was sorry.” 

Ramsay fell back, pausing the shave as Jon went on—his eyes closing softly.

Jon could picture her; see the snowflakes in her eyelashes—the fog of her breath. “She said I was kind,” Jon quirked his mouth into a smile then, “ _stupid_ —but kind...” His words were coming freer still, and he didn’t fight it. “She has very red hair… and in the snow… it was beautiful—she kissed me before I knew what was happening…”

But the warmth of this spell soon faded and Jon stiffened, closing his legs as he straightened up and opened his eyes to see Ramsay’s looming figure.

“She sounds very… _passionate_ ,” Ramsay grinned.

Jon leaned forward then, placing his elbows on his thighs and nodding apprehensively as he looked to his lap; skin growing hot—warmed by the muddled flush of his vulnerable embarrassment. Ygritte’s hair had been beautiful, Jon thought.

_But seven hells, why bloody say so?_

Smiling then, Ramsay pressed a hand lightly to Jon’s chest, slowly pushing him back. And for his part, Jon moved with dazed ease, as both men resumed their earlier positions.

And when Jon was in place, Ramsay started again, the smooth grind of the blade continuing for several more strokes before he spoke, edging forward so as to make his meaning clear.

“And how is she…” Ramsay asked, dropping his eyes pointedly to Jon’s crotch, his gaze driving—eyebrows arched above a leer as his question lingered in the air.

And the taunting sight of it was enough to send Jon’s blood boiling—angry with himself for having allowed such ready exposure, and angrier still at the line, which had been so forcefully crossed just the morning prior. And so without thinking, Jon lashed out. “Better than you,” he spat impetuously, his eyes slitting.

And Jon’s sneer stayed frozen as he watched Ramsay’s face fall, momentarily taken aback. But the man quickly regained his composure, his smile returning on greedy stretch of lips.

“Well, bastard,” Ramsay said, “if you found yourself _unsatisfied_ , we could make another go at it?” 

And the diffused flicker in Jon’s eyes betrayed his resolve—his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat as Ramsay flashed the razor to his cheek.

Ramsay made the final shave then, slow and lingering, before finishing with a dramatic quirk of his wrist. “But no,” he grinned. “I have business to attend to.”

And how Jon hated the obvious way his body softened in relief, just as Ramsay tossed him a rag.

“I’ve done you a favor, just now” Ramsay said, as Jon began to run the cloth along his face, rubbing away the lather. “And what do you say when someone does you a favor? Surely the noble Ned Stark taught you your manners?”

Jon nodded, sighing as he set the rag on the edge of the sink and moved to a stand, squaring his shoulders as he held Ramsay’s stare, contrarily emboldened by the mounting futility of his resistances. “Thank you,” Jon said then, his voice strong and his chin set.

And seemingly amused, Ramsay dropped his head, collecting his laugh before nodding. “You’re welcome,” he said, stepping away and striding towards the door. But he paused at the hallway, turning to Jon once more. “It snowed all night, you know. And they’re still calling for several more inches… I’ll bet your beloved Ygritte’s hair will look just as lovely as the day you met.” And with that, Ramsay chuckled and retreated down the hallway, the close of the door marking the return of Jon’s solitude.

Jon stood still for a moment, his shoulders falling as he let out a long breath. And he dragged a tired hand down his face then, feeling the skin—tingling and fresh—beneath his fingers. He’d not had a clean face since he could remember, the nakedness of the shave decidedly foreign to the touch.

But when Jon fell asleep much later that night, it wasn’t the newness of this shearing that troubled in his mind—nor was it Ramsay’s threats, or the assault, or even Jon’s own anger—but instead Ramsay’s parting words: _it snowed all night_.

For the words served as a reminder; a reminder that the world, which Ramsay spoke of was no longer Jon’s—a world with ice and snow and soft kisses and laughter. No—because for Jon Snow now, his world existed as fundamentally separate; a world measured only by the stagnant indifference of the four concrete walls, which confined him.

***

It struck Jon, as he looked in the mirror tracing the purpled line of the scar, which hooked his right eye, that his beard had fully grown back without him even noticing.

_How long has it been? Three weeks? A month?_

And as he stared at himself, through the listless droop of his brown eyes, he wondered vaguely if, six weeks in, this lack of his attention was born of settled complacency or of something else. And he then wondered vaguely if he even cared.

It was several minutes later when Ramsay entered the room, a glass of milk and a plate of toast and jam in hand.

Jon, meanwhile, was still stood at the sink, and he turned slowly, walking wordlessly forward to receive Ramsay’s offerings; uttering a quiet thanks before raising the glass to his lips.

Jon downed the milk quickly then, lungs gasping as, finished, he used the back of a hand to wipe its remnants from the catch of his whiskers.

And as Jon handed the empty cup back, its glass fogged and white, Ramsay reached out, meeting Jon’s eyes.

“I need you to do something for me,” Ramsay said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, half_life is the best. x


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: guns, graphic descriptions of violence, gang mention, sexual assault mention, blood mention

“There’s a job you see—and I’m afraid I’m short a man. But… you’re a man, are you not?”

Jon nodded apprehensively. “Is this some kind of trick?” 

Ramsay’s lips tucked into an amused smile then. “No, bastard.” He took a dramatic breath. “I simply need your help,” he announced, handing Jon the plate of toast—its change of hands serving as wordless instruction.

So still standing, Jon ate quickly—the crunches of his chewing the only sounds filling the sealed room. And once finished, Jon licked his lips, sucking the jam from his teeth as he rubbed his sticky fingers down the leg of his pants. He passed the plate back then, the ease of his compliance accepted for its habit. 

“Good!” Ramsay exclaimed, bending to place the dishes on the ground. “Now,” he said, pulling a strip of fabric from his pocket, “put this on.”

Jon took the material cautiously, pausing to slowly rub a thumb along its dark stitching before looking up to Ramsay in question. 

“Around your eyes,” Ramsay gestured in response to Jon’s stammer, miming the necessary action with rather mannered simpering. ”Cover them.”

Jon’s jaw tensed as he bit back his questions, heartbeat quickening in his chest. Nonetheless, he did as he was asked, weaving a hand through his curls so as to brush them back before moving to cinch the material in place—tying its ends into a deft, bundled knot at the back of his head. 

And just like that, Jon’s world went black. 

“Can you see anything?” he heard Ramsay call. Jon shook his head, listening as Ramsay’s footsteps approached—his panic spiking. For Ramsay hadn’t touched him save the once. 

_Does he mean to—?_

But Jon’s thoughts were interrupted by Ramsay’s hand heavy on his shoulder, and he startled, quivering from the sudden weight of it.

"You're sure?" Ramsay asked, his breath hot on Jon's neck as he unlocked the chain from the ring of Jon's cuffs.

At the question Jon nodded, licking his lips nervously, eyes darting beneath the rough cover of the opaque fabric. 

"Excellent," Ramsay said; clapping a hand to Jon's shoulder and pushing—the motion sending Jon rocking on the balls of his feet; stumbling forward as Ramsay's grip tightened. "Then let's go."

Hands clasped at his front, Jon was guided down the room’s short hallway next—only to be pulled to a stop just before the door. And it was then that Ramsay moved in, lifting a corner of Jon's blindfold between the pinch of his mealy fingers. "But, no peeking, bastard," Ramsay said, as he waved the shock collar's remote in front of Jon's lone, uncovered eye; its dance a firm warning.

At the display, Jon nodded his agreement solemnly, remembering all too well the bite of the shocks, which so defined his early days in Ramsay's care. 

And seemingly pleased by Jon's submission, Ramsay grinned, dropping his hand and patting Jon's cheek before turning to unbolt the locks. The door shuddered through the metallic scrape of its opening, and Jon was then moved into the outer hallway, his socked feet sliding simply for the necessity of staying upright. And it was only a matter of seconds into their trek before Jon registered two more pairs of footsteps joined in their procession, their booted weight trailing close behind. 

As the party continued forth, Jon did his best to count and plot each step and turn, listening all the while to the florescent hum of the overhead lights. He’d not been as nervous for some time, in large part due to Ramsay more or less having left Jon to himself this past month (aside of course from the occasional bathing and the routine delivery of meals). 

Nonetheless, this sudden change had kicked Jon's pulse racing to his throat. 

And try as he might, it was unfortunately all too soon before the hallway's winding pathways became too difficult to visualize, and following the seventh turn, Jon gave up any hopes he once had of retaining any helpful information concerning the remainder of the building beyond his small room. So back straight, Jon simply padded forth, the grip tight on his arms and the tiled floor cool beneath his feet.

But soon enough the men stalled, and Ramsay pushed Jon through another doorway, where he then pulled the blindfold from Jon's face.

Jon's curls stood up in all directions, and he raised his bound hands to push his hair from his eyes as his vision adjusted. This new room was small and industrial, lined with busy shelves and dirtied tools, leaving little floor-space save for a narrow, concrete slab. 

To Jon's left stood Skinner, the man Jon recognized as Ramsay’s cook. The man was nothing but lean bone and twisted muscle—his blackened teeth working the end of a toothpick, which jutted casually from between the press of his thin lips. Skinner scoffed in greeting, nodding his head with a jerk before settling his arms to fold across his chest—as though waiting to be entertained.

Jon didn’t like the man—didn’t like his food and didn’t like his face—but his pointed glower was interrupted as the men from behind shouldered past him.

Jon had seen these men less frequently than Skinner, and despite not knowing either of their names; he remembered them all the same.

_The men who guarded the door…_

One man stood a good two feet taller than Jon—a thick man with a brutal stare. He had light, matted hair and a thin mustache, which stretched, interrupted by a scar running through his upper lip.

Meanwhile, the other man was several inches shorter than Jon. This man was squat and heavy-set, his pink skin mottled by a thick spattering of warts; the thick of their growth surreptitiously covered beneath the sweep of his thinning brown hair. His eyes below were cold and blue.

“Alright,” the warty man said in gruff welcome, as he settled next to Skinner. The tall man on the other hand, said nothing as he moved to stand behind Ramsay. It was then Jon noticed him hand Ramsay a pile of clothing, his mouth twisting with a silent smirk.

Jon’s chest expanded with a skitter, trembling up the line of his torso with the growing dread of his understanding. He took a breath then, so as to collect himself, closing his eyes and returning all too briefly to a momentary blackness, this time born of of his own intention.

And when he opened his eyes again, Ramsay was grinning, holding the bundle of clothing at arms length.

Jon stared down, his anger thickening in the thrumming channels of of his blood. He caught a beaten laugh in the back of his throat and looked to Ramsay once more.

Ramsay nodded with encouragement then. “Well—go on.” He said, pausing, as if amused by Jon’s apprehension. “I suppose you understand that these are meant for you?”

Jon slowly nodded in answer, his principle acquiescence wordless as he raised his shackled hands—the questioning gesture strong in its return.

Ramsay chuckled with his understanding, stepping closer. “Of course.” He smirked, drawing his hands apart then and dropping the bundle of clothes to Jon’s feet

At the fall, the metal belt buckle landed on the knot of Jon’s biggest toe, causing him to hiss quietly in pain, pulling back before settling his feet between the weight of the pile. For his part, Jon hoped Ramsay hadn’t noticed the break in composure, and he did his best to steady himself as Ramsay, meanwhile, unlocked the cuffs.

And when Ramsay had finished, Jon rubbed the skin of his wrist before bending down and parsing out the pieces of clothing—one mauve shirt, one pair of silky black dress pants, a set of dress socks to match, one belt, and a grey pair of worn boxer shorts, the material fraying from the elastic of their band—the fabric so thin they were almost see-through. Jon wondered if they might have belonged to Ramsay at one point, after all, both men were roughly the same size.

But shorts aside, they were fine clothes—the materials expensive and well fitted, if not a bit showy—never something Jon himself would have picked out.

All the same, Jon steeled himself with a short breath and slowly, he straightened, reaching overhead to pull the tee from his back. And when this was done, he balled up the material and threw it bitterly to the ground, his action accompanied by a whistle that had Jon snapping up his head, a blush blooming furiously on his cheeks as a chorus of laughter erupted around the room.

“Allow me to formally introduce my team,” Ramsay said then, as Jon picked up the fresh shirt, buttoning its snaps with hurried fingers—that is, until Ramsay’s voice dropped with warning. “Pay attention, bastard.”

And at that, Jon’s fingers faltered, four buttons still to go. He looked up, his muscles strained at the pull of their demanded attention—bare chest heaving below the open silk of the fabric.

“That’s better.” Ramsay smiled before gesturing to his far right. “Of course you know Skinner—and that lout next to him is Yellow Dick.” The warty man sucked a puckered kiss Jon’s way, the sound causing Jon’s lips to curl with quiet anger. “And just behind is Grunt,” Ramsay finished. The man called Grunt said nothing in answer, staring blankly back at Jon—his eyes as black as a shark’s.

“And this, my friends,” Ramsay said, “Is Jon Snow.”

It occurred to Jon then, following the pleasant turn of his gut, that it had been a good while since Ramsay had called him by his name. But any warmth he felt at the address soon settled into the rough curdle of indignant shame.

And so hardened, Jon held his ground, staying quiet as he slowly met the gaze of each man—his expression steadfast. And after a time, Jon flicked his eyes to Ramsay. “May I continue?” he asked through gritted teeth as his fingers returned to the shirt’s buttons.

Ramsay smirked, holding out the palm of his pale hand. “By all means.”

Jon finished buttoning his shirt—his eyes pointedly downcast as he prepared for his next indignity. He heaved a tired breath then, before hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of his pants and shucking them swiftly down.

He hurriedly bent over then, unfurling the dress pants with flustered urgency and stepping quickly into their creased legs. And Jon had the trousers pulled all the way to his hips, their open fly framing the white of his briefs, when Ramsay called out again.

“I think you’ve forgotten something,” the man said, smiling as he flicked his eyes to the pair of boxers lying on the ground.

And while on some level, Jon had expected this step, his stomach dropped all the same—teeth grinding as his hands halted at the zipper. 

It then took Jon a few moments of composure before he flexed his fingers and started slowly sliding the pants back down his legs, frustrated by the palpable charge of his own anger, born, not only from the lack of its efficiency, but surely too from the predictably easy offense of its rising.

_Seven hells—relax!_

Ramsay had seen Jon bare at least a couple dozen times; what, with pissing and washing and—

_Touched me…_

But this felt different—beneath the leering gazes of these other men, Jon found himself blushing like a green-boy in a locker room. These men were eager—hungry—and Jon couldn’t help but nervously fidget as he stood before them, the pants once more on the ground.

And while just a second before, Jon had been moving with a rigid slowness, almost dignified in the driven bend of each limb, he now picked up his pace—in an effort to abbreviate the show.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek and pulled down his briefs then, his heart thumping in his temples. And knowing his shirttails wouldn’t quite manage the full extent of privacy, Jon feebly tried to cover himself; cupping his genitals so as to shield them from view. But to his ill frustration, he soon needed both hands to hold steady the new shorts, and so with a reluctant sigh, Jon dropped his cover, exposing himself to the festered sound of yet another whistle as he pulled at the boxers’ elastic.

He hurried his legs into the shorts then, yanking them up and adjusting himself beneath the threadbare cover of the material in but several quick moves.

Yellow Dick called out then. “Like it to the right, eh?” 

It took Jon a moment to understand the man’s meaning, but once he did, his cheeks flushed redder than before, and he tugged at the front of his shorts, so as to hide any contoured indication of such personal affairs—his eyes dark and his glower creasing as the men around grunted in humor.

“If it’s anythin’ you know, it’s dick, ain’t it, Yellow?” Skinner said, laughing dimly as he jostled the shoulder of the man to his left. “Wha’ you jealous o’ his?” the thin man jerked his head towards Jon, “’cause it’s pale and pretty like the rest of him,” he flashed Jon a quick wink then, before turning again back to Yellow Dick, the motion accompanied by another gruff chuckle “—not like yer gnarled knob?”

“Alright!” The stout man grimaced, unamused; throwing his arms out and shoving Skinner hard in the chest. “You shut your skinny mouth or I’ll shut it for ya.”

“Enough” Ramsay’s barked; eyes flashing angrily as he stared at Jon, refusing to even turn around with his words. But all the same, for their part, the men behind silenced immediately, undoubtedly noting whatever akin to possessiveness, which stirred in the ball of Ramsay’s clenched fists.

Jon held Ramsay’s glare then, as he picked the pants from the ground and yanked them on, straightening his back and standing tall as he buttoned and zipped; his anger cooling to the despondent return of whatever dignity he could muster.

The room stayed quiet as Jon continued, bending over to peel the socks from his feet. 

He unrolled the dress socks next, and slid them on—their dark stretches a contrast to the milky pale of his skin. And once this was finished, Jon righted himself once more, tucking the shirt into his waistband and buckling his belt. He watched then as Grunt passed Ramsay a pair of leather shoes and an indigo windbreaker, which were promptly handed to Jon.

Jon took them, standing still for a moment and feeling the weight of the shoes before placing the jacket on the ground. He grunted then—a worn, breathy noise. “I’m guessing these aren’t just a fashion statement,” Jon said, looking to Ramsay.

For his part, Ramsay seemed pleased by Jon’s observance. “You’re right,” he answered gleefully, gesturing to the men behind. “We’re going to meet a man—on business. And you—” he pointed to Jon, “—you’re coming with us.”

Jon’s brow furrowed.

“Strength in numbers, see,” Ramsay continued, “but don’t worry—you won’t need to speak—Grunt doesn’t,” he finished with a laugh, as if the words might be comforting.

But as Jon trailed his eyes to the tall, silent man, his stomach flipped; remembering what Ramsay had said all those weeks ago.

_“Had his tongue cut out.”_

Jon fought to keep his wince as subtle as possible as he nodded his compulsory agreement, utterly perplexed at Ramsay’s declaration. All the same, mind humming, he bent quietly then, stuffing his feet into the shoes and lacing them up. And when he had shrugged on the jacket, opting to leave it unzipped, Jon now sported each piece of his new outfit.

“Where are we going?” he asked slowly then, his tone dour in its apprehension.

“It’s a surprise! I know how you like surprises,” Ramsay chuckled, stepping closer and holding out the blindfold between the stretch of his cold hands. “Now, allow me.”

Jon stilled as Ramsay stepped behind him, covering his eyes with the fabric and pulling the material taut around Jon’s head.

“Think you’re up for a car ride?” Ramsay asked, his words sharp in Jon’s ear as he raked his fingers through Jon’s curls, as if in display for the men Jon could no longer see. 

_A car ride? Outside?_

“But—“ Jon started, stopping as he thought on the possibilities—wondering at the true extent of Ramsay’s recklessness, and wondering still if he should voice his confusion at all; unsure (as always) of Ramsay’s true intentions.

_Surely the newspapers and media—my face must be everywhere._

Jon couldn’t help himself in the end, small hopes betraying his caution. “What if… won’t someone recognize me?” He asked tentatively.

Ramsay hummed, as though he’d expected Jon’s perplexity, fingers all the while fiddling with the knot at the base of Jon’s head—pulling it tight. “Not where we’re going.”

“And even if they do, they won’t say nuffin’,” Yellow Dick interjected, laughing harshly.

Ramsay moved away then, leaving Jon alone in the blackness as he listened. And after several seconds of shuffling and rustling, Jon heard Ramsay’s footsteps again approaching, his muscles tensing as he held himself in place.

But suddenly, a hand appeared at Jon’s belt, yanking him forward as a cold metal shaft was shoved roughly down the front of his trousers. 

Jon mewled involuntarily, the sound rolling quickly into a grunting mixture of discomfort and shock as he tried to jerk his hips away.

But Ramsay’s grip tightened, the press of the metal increasing as a hand was clapped to Jon’s shoulders, fingers crawling to grip at the collar on Jon’s neck. “Can you feel this?” Ramsay asked, wiggling the object back and forth in Jon’s pants. “You know what it is?”

Throat jumping, Jon licked his lips, his mouth too dry to speak. So instead he nodded, the handgun’s muzzle digging uncomfortably into the soft weight of his cock.

“Good… but don’t get any ideas, bastard,” Ramsay said, a click signaling the audible cocking of the pistol’s hammer.

Jon’s heart leapt desperately, “Wait—“ he said, his fearful plea interrupted by the swift pull of the trigger.

_Click._

Jon froze then, waiting for the bursting flash of pain between his legs. But to his aching relief, the sensation never came.

And head swimming, Jon’s reality slowly began to shudder back to a settle.

_It didn’t—_

“It’s just for show,” Ramsay leered, the words only barely registering for Jon. “Not loaded.”

Standing as they were, Jon could practically hear the smile on the man’s lips. And for a brief moment, Jon thought he must have pissed himself, letting out a scraping breath when he realized his pants were still dry. Still, he struggled to stay upright; all trembling lips and mouth agape—the faint hints of nausea stirring in his belly.

And the blood had only just returned to Jon’s cheeks, flushing beneath the hug of the blindfold, when Ramsay stepped back—pulling his hands away and leaving the gun firmly tucked in Jon’s waistband.

“You’ve got to look the part,” Ramsay said, as he pawed with heavy hands, brushing lint from Jon’s shoulders and doing up the final button of his shirt; pulling tightly, before bowing to straighten the buckle of Jon’s belt, as though he were dressing a glass-eyed doll for some prized display.

And when Ramsay had finished situating Jon to the best of his appraisal, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small, metal key. Ramsay pressed the key to the flat of Jon’s cheek, pushing gently—the grooves of its neck indenting pink against the white of Jon’s skin. “I’m going to take off the collar now,” Ramsay said, pausing as he pulled the key back, as if on second thought. “I can trust you, can’t I? Trust you… not to do anything stupid?”

And swallowing roughly, Jon nodded wordlessly as the key was pushed into the collar’s lock.

Ramsay made a noise of approval. “Good,” he said, turning the key, which resulted in the blissful loosening of the collar’s hold, “Because you know what’s at stake.” And with that, the collar was fully unfastened, pulled from around Jon’s neck in a flash.

The air was cool on Jon’s skin, rubbed raw and red, as it had been over the past month or so. But before Jon could fully enjoy the sensation’s relief, Ramsay’s hands returned. 

The man clucked his tongue unfavorably then. “Hmm, but this won’t do—“ he said in thought, his fingers softly squeezing Jon’s tender neck, the touch stinging. “These marks are far too noticeable…” Ramsay snapped his fingers then, “Grunt, may I borrow your scarf,” he asked, his tone much too warm for the savagery Jon knew the man capable of.

Jon did his best to stay still, listening to the scarf exchange hands—the scratch of wool soon wrapping around his neck.

But his skin as sore as it was, Jon immediately raised his hand out of irritated habit, moving to tug at the bind of the itchy material.

However, before Jon’s fingers could successfully pull at the scarf’s weave, Ramsay caught his wrist.

“No, bastard—your hands are to remain at your sides,” he tutted. “That’s the price you pay for staying uncuffed.”

Jon’s expression soured, but when Ramsay’s fingers loosened, he lowered his hand nonetheless—fingertips digging into the meat of his palms as he clenched his fists.

“Good… So this won’t be a problem, will it?” Ramsay tightened the scarf.

Jon shook his head steadily in answer.

“Excellent! Then let’s carry on.”

And with that, Jon was grabbed harshly, pushed forward and out the door into what was presumably the same hallway as before—two pairs of hands clamped tightly round his biceps on either side—the sounds of two other men walking noisily in the lead.

“Take him ‘round the back,” Jon heard Ramsay call after several winding minutes, earning two grunts of understanding from the men flanking Jon. “We’ll meet you at the carport.” And soon after, the front two pairs of footsteps veered off, leaving Jon alone with his handlers, and with the very heightened awareness that Ramsay was not one of them.

_Do I make a run for it?_

Jon’s heart raced at the idea of escape—its prospect now truly considered for the first time in weeks.

_Run where? It didn’t very well work the first time._

His breathing grew more labored.

_Wait… But what if—_

But Jon’s thoughts were interrupted by the grumbled whisper of the man to his left—the voice Jon immediately recognized as Yellow Dick’s.

“Is this a good idea, d’ya think?” he asked gruffly. “Wha’ all ‘cause Ramsay’s tryin’ ta prove somethin’ to his father?”

“Oi—shut it, will ya?“ Skinner hissed from Jon’s right. “Ramsay knows what he’s doin’.”

“I’m just sayin’.” Yellow Dick defended. “This one’s not like Reek—I can see it in his eyes.”

“Stop talking, you daft git—it’s his eyes that’re covered, not his ears! Now shut your mouth—‘less you wanna end up like Grunt.”

“Alright, alright—I’m just sayin’ is all.” Yellow Dick muttered.

“Well say it to yourself.”

_Ramsay’s father? Reek?_

Jon’s stomach churned, wishing desperately that the men would keep talking—that he might learn something he didn’t know. These men were stupid, Jon knew—Skinner and Yellow Dick—dim men who enjoyed cruelty for its sport and who wouldn’t know subtlety if it were to jump up and bite them on the arse.

_Not like Ramsay._

For even as the days had plodded on, Jon still couldn’t quite read Ramsay—never reliably predict his behavior. And any time Jon found himself lulled into a confidence, that he might have well-estimated Ramsay’s next action or response, Jon’s comfort would almost always prove as brief as his expectations proved false; Ramsay forever seeming one step ahead.

But now, though Jon had wished it, Ramsay’s men spoke no more, and the rest of the walk was made in stiff silence—the turns and twists of the corridors as disorienting as before.

And suddenly, the grind of a door sounded, and Jon was hit with a rush of cold air and misting rain.

“Careful,” Skinner grunted, his hold on Jon tightening. “Steps.”

And stilling, Jon scraped his shoe along the ground, its rubber sole moving carefully along the ledge’s wet cement, as if to test its depth.

But Yellow Dick soon lost patience with Jon’s blind assessments, and pushed him roughly forward, clutching Jon’s arm only so as to keep him upright. “You’re fine,” he said.

Though for his part, Jon stumbled, slipping briefly to his knees—his other arm wrenched behind, still restrained by Skinner’s hold.

“Watch it!” Skinner shouted, scrambling down the steps in an attempt to pull Jon again upright.

“He’s fine,” Yellow Dick affirmed. “Aren’t ya, lad?”

And without answer, Jon was yanked to his feet, the smell of winter rain swirling in his nose. It occurred to him then, that were he able to see, Jon most certainly would be able to watch his breath misting out in plumes before him, the sight’s elusiveness causing his throat to tighten as their march continued.

Just then, Jon heard a van door slide open, his hair now properly dampened and his cheeks rouged from the cold.

“Up ya get,” Skinner said, nudging at the back of Jon’s leg.

Accordingly, Jon raised his foot, searching for a hold and stepping next into the van, careful to watch his head.

In a matter of seconds, he was shoved unceremoniously into a seat, Ramsay’s voice cooing from the van’s front. “Buckle in, bastard—safety is our number one priority this trip! Isn’t that right, Grunt?”

The driver offered no answer, but Jon did as he was bid all the same, fumbling beside him for the seat’s belt and clicking it soon in place. Skinner and Yellow Dick squeezed next to him on either side.

And when the engine sounded and the car started to move, Jon was surprised to realize that he’d been holding in a breath—as if worried this trip was all a ruse. He settled then, placing his hands on his knees, brushing off the wet gravel that had stuck from his fall, and listening to the repetitive, squeaking strokes of the windshield wipers. 

As the van picked up speed, driving over the grooves and holes in the parking lot’s pavement, some one in the front—Ramsay likely—began fiddling with the radio, switching stations and jumping through channels of static as the rain picked up, its fall pattering loudly on the steel roof of the car.

The sounds inside the vehicle were all as equally comforting in their familiarity as they were jarring—as though this were nothing more than a routine car ride; its very normalcy setting Jon sweating with agitation.

And when they’d reached the road, Jon heard Ramsay turn in his seat. “Do you like music? _Bastard_?” he asked.

Surprised to be addressed, Jon swallowed, “Aye,” he said, nodding quickly, his attentions muddled.

“Good… then how about Mozart?” Ramsay’s fingers stopped on the dial, a requiem beginning to play.

“Fine—yes; anythin’.”

Ramsay chuckled. “He’s very agreeable, this one.” He said then, his tone one of performative pride.

And as the van’s passengers silenced once more, to the rising tunes of classical piano playing from the speakers, Jon allowed himself, for the first time since settling in the van, to truly consider the realities of his escape.

It had been a time, Jon realized, since he had done so. For as the weeks had gone on, Jon had his fight transform; the brewing heat of his initial resistance replaced instead by a low, simmering anger—his daily actions reduced only to the barest of necessities and displays of obedience.

Ramsay no doubt, had noticed this change, his amused satisfaction growing by the day at Jon’s compliance. And Jon wondered now if it was this apparent docility that prompted Ramsay’s trust in this little outing. 

For his part, Jon was well determined to prove Ramsay’s faith in him wrong. As in his darkest moments this past month, Jon had found himself worrying vaguely that his passivity wasn’t as noble as it once had been (for the sake of others), and that just maybe, his compliance had now simply reformed into a comfortable acceptance. In the end, to his deep shame, he couldn’t say which was true.

But one thing he could say, however, was that despite his growing passivity, Jon’s hatred of Ramsay had been growing daily—brewing inside, angry and waiting. And now, as the car rattled through the rain, Jon’s fury was bubbling to its head.

_When I have the chance, I’m running for it._

The drive continued, the air inside stale and the music quiet. And Jon spent the next twenty minutes or so relatively still, thinking in abstract terms what an escape plan might consist of.

_For what it’s worth._

Over the course of the drive, he was fairly sure that they had not made it onto an expressway, as the car never picked up any significant speed, and the turns and stops were fairly frequent. All the same, Jon had no idea where they were—the blindfold effective in its purpose.

Eventually, the car slowed and Ramsay spoke to Grunt. “Go around back.”

And within a minute, the van came to a stop, its engine cutting.

Ramsay again turned to the back. “Now, bastard,” he started, speaking slowly. “We’re going to meet a man. He’s called Small Jon,” he chuckled then, apparently amused. “But he’s much bigger than you…”And with that, Ramsay’s laughter ended by an abrupt clap of his hands, the sound transforming as the man began rubbing them together, as if eager. “Your job is just to keep your head up and to stay quiet. Understood?”

Jon nodded.

“Excellent—ready?”

Jon paused a beat and nodded once more.

“Then let’s go!”

The van doors opened then, and Jon’s belt was soon unfastened—his arms pulled and his body hauled to a stand.

“Out ya get, Jonny,” Skinner said, grunting as he maneuvered Jon out of the car and onto the asphalt. 

Upon landing, the wind tugged at Jon’s scarf and walking forward, he listened for any noises that might place them; a car alarm sounding in the distance, the rush of rain through a broken gutter, and five pairs of shoes crunching gravel and sidestepping puddles.

The walk was brief though, and before long, Jon found himself pushed beneath cover—the slam of the door vacuuming this new space in silence, dry and warm.

And just as suddenly as they’d entered the indoors, Jon’s blindfold was again, pulled roughly from his eyes.

He blinked several times, looking around the room as the rest of the men shook the rain from their coats. It was a short hallway, bare and narrow, and flanked by the door to the outside and a grimy set of descending stairs. The walls were painted with a dark, warm grey, adorned only by the occasional mirror or grubby brass frame. Jon could hear music in the distance, and he could already smell the sour scent of ale.

Eventually, Jon’s attentions moved back to his company, and he watched as Ramsay folded the blindfold and put it in his back pocket, grinning all the while—his eyes never leaving Jon.

The heat of observation as uncomfortable as always, it took only a few seconds for Jon to look away, his eyes catching on the glint of metal, which jutted from Ramsay’s belt as he did so. He faltered.

_A gun—and surely loaded at that._

Jon’s heart sank nervously, the weight of his own useless weapon resting mockingly in the snug hold of his trousers.

Ramsay walked over then, raising his hands to adjust the collar of Jon’s shirt, and fiddling attentively with the tails of the scarf. “We’ll be going downstairs, Jon Snow,” he explained. “You’re to follow Skinner. Don’t speak and do as he does. We’ll be right behind you.”

Jon nodded and turned on heel, following quietly after Skinner’s confident steps.

The men downed the stairs, the sound of music getting louder, and when they rounded a corner, they came across the open door of the men’s room on the left. Jon only managed to catch brief sight as they turned—glimpsing the ceramic sink that stood beneath one lonely basement window.

And then to his right, just across from the toilet, was another room—this time the interior of a pub. Jon craned his neck for a better look.

The room had only one or two patrons shuffling aimlessly about—fitting, Jon thought, considering the clock, which read 10:37 in the morning. Nonetheless, the music blared loudly—rock guitars grinding from the speakers as a few more men drank, slumped at the counter, where another man stood, idly drying a glass.

Jon briefly considered calling out to them—to call for the police or to beg for help—but the moment passed quickly. 

_What if—_

And before Jon had even finished his thought, Ramsay shoved his shoulder, prompting movement. “Carry on, bastard.”

So Jon did—following Skinner round one more turn before the man stopped in front of a closed door, knocking curtly before moving to one side, gesturing that Jon stand to the other. 

And just as Jon had stepped in place, the door opened.

From Jon’s peripheries, he watched as a chiseled man with a large beard and long hair stepped from its opening. 

“Bolton, you bastard!” he cried warmly, clapping a thick hug around Ramsay’s shoulders.

And while Ramsay reciprocated the hug, Jon didn’t miss the way his captor’s lips tightened at the address.

“Small Jon,” Ramsay answered in return, forcing a smile as he pulled away from the larger man.

“Come in, come in,” Small Jon ushered then, to which Ramsay, Grunt, and Yellow Dick followed, all on the flourish of Small Jon’s outstretched arm.

And as he held the door open, the man eyed Jon, dragging his eyes across Jon’s body as if appraising him. But the moment didn’t last more than a second, and before Jon knew it, the door was being shut just as quickly as it had been opened.

So left in silence, Jon once more considered his escape. 

_I’m running out of time._

Briefly, he thought of Skinner and considered the risk of simply making a run for it. After all, he was fairly sure he could overpower the man to his right.

_Bash him and take off._

But as if on queue, Skinner pulled the pistol from his pocket then, flashing it for Jon to see—its muzzle aimed Jon’s way as Skinner’s hands folded to a rest at his front.

And with the pointed reminder, Jon looked to his shoes and turned his thoughts again to the men in the bar and then to the men inside the room, racking his brains for any scenario where revealing his status might prove beneficial. But the more he thought, the more these men—these strangers—seemed too uncertain, unlikely in any case to help.

 _It’s not normal—this._

Ramsay and his gang were not ordinary criminals, Jon understood. And nor was Ramsay a mad man acting alone. No, instead he appeared well connected—part of a system of crime and hierarchy apparently organized, calculating, and established.

_The mafia?_

Jon couldn’t say for sure, but the longer he stood outside the door, the clearer it became—any escape would be solely up to him.

_I’ll have to risk it—I can take Skinner. Grab his gun and run._

Jon’s palms started to sweat, and he rubbed them on his pants, eying Skinner from the side as he prepared himself for what was to be done.

_It’s my only chance…_

But as Jon picked up his head, he caught sight of a crack in the wall opposite, its shape jarringly similar to one in the house he grew up in.

Jon remembered this crack well, as he shared a bathroom with Robb growing up—oft left to stand outside, similar to how he stood now, waiting impatiently for its door to open so he might have his turn.

And in this moment, Jon distantly recalled one instance from long ago, when as a boy of 15 he’d been stood in nothing but his boxer shorts and T-shirt, waiting for Robb to finish up in the loo as he stared tiredly at that damned crack.

That morning, Jon had pounded on the door ten minutes prior, his towel in hand as the rest of the Starks bustled around with their dawn routines.

But as time went on without answer, Jon grew more and more annoyed. And after five more minutes of waiting, Jon pounded again on the door; more or less aware of what Robb might be doing in the shower. _Gods, ever since he and Jeyne have taken up, he’s been insatiable_ , Jon had thought.

“Robb! Hurry up!” Jon had shouted.

And when Robb emerged two minutes later, a boyish grin on his face and his red curls dripping, Jon rolled his eyes.

“Can't you just do that in your room?” Jon asked, bold from irritation.

And while Robb had the brief dignity to appear affronted, he soon laughed, the surprised bark of its sound cut off by Arya’s voice from the end of the hallway.

“Do what?” Arya called.

And easily scandalized, Jon had blushed even redder than Robb in the moment. 

“Nothing!” both boys called out in unison—their embarrassment spared as Arya’s attention was dragged away by Sansa’s shouts.

“There’s mud everywhere, Arya, I swear—it’s like sharing a bathroom with a dog!”

Jon had slammed the bathroom door to the muffled tune of Sansa’s cries coming through the walls, walking to the shower and shedding his clothes—hoping Robb had had the decency to clean up.

That had been a nice bathroom, Jon remembered now—its walls a calm green; the memory but a flash of a life long gone. 

And then, standing outside the meeting room’s door, it hit Jon as if by some divine providence—how he might escape—just as the door behind him swung open.

Ramsay stalked from the room, looking well pleased with himself, as Yellow Dick and Grunt followed, shutting the door gently after them.

And as the men gathered in the hallway, Skinner looked to Ramsay, raising his brows in question.

Ramsay answered with a grin. “It’s done— _secured_.”

To which, seemingly comforted, Skinner nodded, releasing a breath.

 _Good_.

Jon, for his part, was equally pleased—the fragments of a plan falling into place as his heart raced from the anxiety of his excitement. It felt good, albeit nerve racking, to have direction—to have control.

 _He’s overconfident. Ramsay won’t expect it—wouldn’t have brought me out otherwise_.

And then, the men stepped in line, moving back towards the exit.

But at the hallway’s intersection between the pub and the toilet, Jon faltered, hanging back. “I have to go to the loo,” Jon said then, hoping he might sound nonchalant. And when Ramsay didn’t immediately answer, Jon searched for a qualifier, the thin legs on which his plan stood already beginning to wobble. “I—it’s a long ride back.”

But then, Ramsay’s eyes flashed with an emotion Jon couldn’t quite read—almost as if the man was both disappointed and excited at the same time—and after a pause, he smiled widely. “I suppose you’ve earned it.”

Jon nodded his appreciation, his cheeks flushing with anticipation as he moved to step inside the restroom.

But Ramsay caught his shoulder at the last minute, throwing a brief glance to the pub, its inhabitants seemingly unconcerned about the going-ons outside, before speaking. “You have one minute. And the door stays open,” he said firmly.

“Right,” Jon muttered, trying to keep his cool, despite his utter relief at the ease with which he’d been granted a moment of privacy.

 _It’ll work. It has to_.

Jon walked quickly then, steadying himself at the urinal, which hung bare on the wall. He undid his buckle and removed the handgun from his pants, shoving it inconspicuously into his trouser pocket, all the while aware of the eyes on his back. Then, Jon pulled out his cock, if only for the show of it; silently counting fifteen pissless seconds, before stuffing it back in his shorts and zipping his fly—his adrenaline thrumming in his veins. 

And muscles taut in waiting, Jon turned then, walking back towards the open door, where Ramsay stood, one leg on either side of its threshold.

“You didn’t wash your—“ Ramsay began, only to be cut off by Jon’s desperate lunge.

Jon slammed his body into the heft of the door, pushing it against Ramsay’s weight. He could hear the sound of surprise from the other side, but Jon continued pushing nonetheless, jamming Ramsay’s hand between the frame and the door.

And the man’s resulting growl only spurred Jon’s fury in answer, struggling as he was against the heavy oak while Ramsay pawed and scraped to get free. 

For a moment, Jon feared Ramsay would be able to maneuver himself through the opening, but at the horror of the thought, Jon pulled the gun swiftly from his pocket, slamming its butt into the already battered fingers of Ramsay’s bleeding hand. The move was met with a sickening crunch of bone and the hand’s howling retraction, allowing Jon the briefest of opportunities to close the door completely—setting the lock with reckless speed and pausing for only a second to collect his breath.

Jon ran to the sink then, scrambling atop its basin and stretching to the basement’s window. He fiddled with the locks, scraping desperate fingers over smoky glass to no avail.

_They’re not opening—seven hells—_

Panic was beginning to set in, but Jon willed himself to get a grip, looking again to the gun resting in the hold of his palm.

And thinking quickly he pulled the scarf from his neck, wrapping it round his fist and raising the gun in the air. Then, with all his strength, Jon slammed its butt into the edge of the window, shattering its pane into hundreds of small shards.

Jon ducked for a moment, protecting his eyes as the pieces rained down, before tucking his hands in his sleeves and clearing away the window fragments that remained. When this was finished, he hoisted his body up—moving to shimmy through the opening and onto the pavement, canting to his belly and beginning to crawl forth, bits of glass and rock scraping through his clothes.

But as he squirmed to pull his legs through the window’s frame, the fabric of his pants got stuck, catching on a large piece of glass as Jon slid.

He grunted in pain, the material of his trousers ripping from thigh to knee before he could wriggle himself away, leg cut open and chest heaving from exertion.

And when he was all the way through, Jon clambered to his back, lifting his head to watch as the fall of rain diluted the thick blood draining from his wound.

But he didn’t allow himself another moment of rest, staggering roughly to a stand—jaw set with grim determination.

Jon took off then, gripping his leg and running as best he could down the narrow alleyway—its strip flanked by tall grey walls on either side.

But just as he was about to clear the buildings, Jon heard voices, and so he turned quickly around, racing back in the direction he had come from—his heart hammering in his chest.

And rounding the back corner, Jon was fully unprepared for the resulting collision—the impact of slamming into another body sending Jon sprawling to his knees.

“Oi!” the new man cried angrily, before his eyes fell to Jon’s leg, bleeding as it was. The stranger’s expression softened then. “You alright, mate?”

This man was thickly built with a boyish face—dressed in all black and holding an umbrella to match. And standing as he was, the man looked piteously down to Jon, before knitting his brows and slowly reaching out a hand.

Jon took the hand gratefully, struggling to speak between the deep pull of his ragged breaths. “Please—please I have to get out of here—I need to phone the police!” he cried, clutching at the man’s arm.

“Alright, alright—calm down.”

“I need—“

“I heard ya,” the man insisted. “There’s a police station just down the block,” he said then, gesturing.

And Jon’s heart almost stopped from the relief of it. “You’re sure?”

“Aye—you alright to walk?” the man asked, again eyeing Jon’s bleeding leg.

“Yes—but we have to hurry. Please—there are men after me—I—“

“Fine—fine. Follow me.”

The man started running down an intersecting alley then, Jon close at his heels.

And as the two men thundered through this alleyway and the next, the rain hardened, pelting fat, heavy drops from the sky. For his part, Jon had begun to feel light-headed, but he continued forth nonetheless, his resolve stronger than his pain.

And when another minute of desperate twists and turns had passed, the men came face to face with a thick concrete wall—a dead end.

The man in front stopped then, turning to face Jon. “We’re here.”

Jon cocked his head curiously. “The station? But—“

From behind, a familiar voice called out, cutting Jon off. “Damon! Thank you for returning my man to me—”

Jon’s stomach sank—his knees growing weak as he spun on his heels to see Ramsay and his men slowly advancing.

“—I’m afraid he’d _wandered off_ ,” Ramsay finished.

And amidst the crushing weight of his utter devastation, Jon’s lip curled indignantly, and he raised himself to his full height—releasing his leg and standing tall—the pitch of his eyes blackening with fury as he nodded a sigh of understanding.

And then, with all the remaining strength Jon possessed, he set off into a dead sprint—running directly towards the four men who blocked the way.

But before Jon reached them, he spun, grabbing the metal lid from a trashcan standing to his right; hoisting it up as if it were a shield, and barreling then into Yellow Dick. Resultantly, the man collapsed beneath Jon’s weight, falling to the gravel and kicking out.

But Jon dodged the blow, jumping over Yellow Dick’s Legs and landing hard on the wet cement.

He scraped to a stand once more then, dropping the lid and lunging at Skinner—slamming a fist into the man’s jaw, once, and then twice more.

But before Jon could do much further damage, a thick pair of arms wrapped tightly around his middle, and Grunt was soon yanking Jon back towards the wall.

So desperate, Jon began to struggle fiercely in the man’s hold, just as another pair of arms closed in around his shoulders.

Jon cried out in frustration then, his shoes sliding through the puddles as he writhed, managing briefly to wrench his shoulders free and throw a well-placed elbow into Grunt’s gut.

But despite the fury of Jon’s fight, in his weakened state, he was simply no match for the grip of both Damon and Grunt, who all too soon had him pushed helplessly against the bricks—both arms pinned flat to the wall.

And when Jon raised his head, vision marred by dripping curls, he watched Ramsay approach—the man clutching at his mangled hand, a steely rage glaring in his eyes as he advanced towards his hostage.

At the sight Jon kicked out his foot in one final attempt at breaking free, catching Damon firmly in the thigh and causing him to waver off-balance.

Jon took the opportunity then, jerking his hand free and throwing a punch towards Ramsay.

But Ramsay had seen it coming, and he dodged Jon’s fist, then using the drive of his shoulder to slam Jon once more against the wall—the maneuver coupled with a forceful knee to Jon’s groin.

At the hit, Jon let out a strangled whimper, groaning as he crumpled to his knees—unable to focus on anything outside the pain, and only distantly aware of the hands loosening around him.

And once on the ground, Jon cradled his balls, the bite of tears prickling in his eyes as he swallowed his nausea and tried hopelessly to return to his feet. But his efforts were of no use, and following a weak attempt at standing; Jon simply stumbled to the gravel, grunting from the force of his fall.

His hands were yanked roughly from between his legs then, causing Jon to moan at the loss—the sick, squeal of panic flooding through his veins.

_No… I have to get free—I have to—_

But any last hopes of escape died to the sharp sound of handcuffs snapping around Jon’s wrists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again again again to half_life (who will be at my house in 4 days—whoop!) for being the best.
> 
> And as per usual, please let me know if I've forgotten to tag any warnings properly!


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: needles, scissors, stitches, branding, bombings (mention), non-consensual touching, bondage, threats of violence

When Ramsay finally pulled the blindfold off, it took Jon’s eyes a moment to adjust—blinking so as to take in his surroundings.

This room was new to Jon—its space sprawling and dark, lit only by the flickering lick of flames, which Jon guessed were coming from some sort of fireplace set into the wall behind him. Though as he was, strapped to a cold metal table in nothing but the same worn pair of skivvies Ramsay had given him, Jon was unable to say for certain.

So mewling in the dark, Jon pulled at his binds, rolling his wrists in the leather belts securing his arms. The material squeaked and groaned with Jon’s efforts, but remained otherwise unmoved—same as the straps on his ankles.

The last hour or so had been an agonizing blur of pain and confusion, beginning with a blindfolded ride in the van and ending with the rough stripping of his clothes followed by Jon’s forceful binding to the table. 

And he’d been left alone as such for the better part of ten minutes, his hair still damp and his ears pricked attentively. So now he lay anxiously, his chest rising and falling with alarm while his balls throbbed dully in time with the beat of his heart. 

Yet, after another few minutes, a door opened abruptly, and Jon listened then, to his growing dismay, to the sounds of footsteps circling from behind—their steady falls moving closer.

But before he could properly focus on the noise, Jon startled, as a white light flashed overhead—a metal lamp now directing the full force of its glow on Jon’s face.

Jon grunted, wrenching his eyes shut and turning his head. 

But while he’d closed his eyes at the light’s initial flash, they soon reopened, growing wide and indignant as a cool hand wrapped around the meat of his left thigh, just beneath the gnarled gash in his skin.

A strangled grunt eased itself from Jon’s lips then, the pain from Ramsay’s grip second in intensity only to the wriggling heat of Jon’s unease. 

And a heavy silence hung in the air as the two men eyed each other. But Ramsay soon broke it, drawing a deep sigh. “There will be punishment for your actions,” he said, his tone simperingly false in its air of apology.

At the words, Jon lolled his head back, taking a deep breath of his own, and gently shutting his eyes, as if in concession. His palms began to sweat.

“And… do you know why you’re being punished?” Ramsay asked then, cocking his head gently.

Jon opened his eyes and looked up to the crossbeams, collecting himself before speaking, as though scraping his words from the last shreds of his dignity. “Because I tried to escape,” he answered, his voice raw.

“Very good.” Ramsay smiled and let out a brief chuckle. “But… I have to ask: did you _really_ think you’d get away?”

Jon sucked in a breath and scowled, turning again to face Ramsay. “I got close—“ he started bitterly, licking his lips in pause.

_I failed._

But Jon had to stifle his grief at the thought, channeling his disappointment instead into a flash of trapped anger. “How’s your hand?” Jon asked then; his words lined with sarcasm.

Ramsay’s lips twisted with malice before stretching once more into a wide leer. He lifted his injured hand then, it’s fingers splinted and swollen. “I suppose we’ll find out,” Ramsay said, pressing the fingers of his undamaged hand into the gash on Jon’s leg. And as Jon let out a whimpered gasp, Ramsay dug in, the bite of his nails stinging within the vise of Jon’s smarting flesh. “You’re in need of stitches—so let’s hope my hands are still able to perform with precision… otherwise I fear things will get a bit _messy_.” Ramsay said, fingers curling once more before mercifully pulling out—the relief drawing its final, stilted cry from deep within Jon’s chest.

_Stitches…_

Through his pain, Jon’s heartbeat hastened, his skin going clammy. He’d never been good with needles, much to his shame—passing out regularly just at the sight.

As a boy, it was commonplace for Catelyn Stark to take the horde of children to the doctor together for their check-ups. And the first time Jon had fainted on the exam table, Catelyn had been frustrated at the inconvenience, seemingly under the impression that he was putting on a display for attention. _For heaven’s sake, Jon; even little Sansa sat through her shots_ , she’d admonished tersely, taking his small arm roughly in hand as he sniffled, his eyes still fluttering hazily. 

But as time went on of course, it became clear that swooning was simply matter of fact when it came to Jon and needles—something Catelyn would eventually attend to with the same begrudging tolerance as always; that is, until Jon was old enough to see himself to his own doctors’ appointments. And still, even then a man grown, sat in a hospital exam room, it was all Jon could do to hold himself steady, his lower lip trembling and his tongue dry as he anticipated his accustomed unconsciousness. 

This was an embarrassing reality Jon generally kept to himself, his distinctive privacy born, in part, of learned defensiveness. And indeed, when Jon had first mentioned his phobia to Ygritte, she had been positively tickled, teasing him mercilessly for it.

“The _big, strong_ firefighter is scared of needles,” she had laughed.

“I’m not that _big_ ,” Jon had mumbled in answer, grinning dryly at his expense as he wrapped her tighter in his arms—the persistence of Ygritte’s belligerent questioning having prompted a newfound openness within him, its stirring still uneasy despite the simultaneous heat of its excitement.

“You’re big enough, Jon Snow,” Ygritte smiled then, kissing him gently (much to Jon’s warm satisfaction), as they tumbled in the sheets.

But as it was now, lying on the table beneath Ramsay Bolton, Jon was anything but satisfied. He watched with wide eyes as Ramsay dragged over a small, metal table, its surface adorned with various instruments and packages. 

Jon swallowed, the tendons of his throat snapping as Ramsay carried on with his task, ripping open a slim paper packet, and pulling a sterile towelette from its hold with a flourish. He cleaned his hands then, wiping delicately along the bones of his wounded fingers before tossing the towelette aside.

Jon shut his eyes at that, listening then to the unmistakable clanging of metal and plastic—his chest hitching as he struggled to still his breath.

But whatever anxious reprieve Jon had found in his momentary darkness was soon interrupted by the cool weight of Ramsay’s hand on his hip, its presence accompanied by a soft laugh.

Jon’s eyes shot open then, focusing warily on the scissors Ramsay held—his expression one of apprehensive query.

“I’ll have to cut your shorts, bastard—they’re in the way,” Ramsay said, nodding his head as if annoyed at having to explain such obviousness. “Now, hold still.” And before Jon could even voice his protest, Ramsay had reached out, hiking up the leg of Jon’s boxers and beginning to cut at the fabric, snipping the scissors all the way through from hem to waistband.

Jon grunted then, shifting as Ramsay turned back to the table. And as the man busied himself with the surface’s appliances, Jon slowly moved to lift his head, the apple in his throat bobbing as he looked to survey the damage before him. 

For a moment, Jon found himself pleased to see that in spite of the alterations, Ramsay had left Jon’s skivvies mostly in place, their fabric still serving as merciful cover for his modesty. But Jon’s relief was short-lived, as he took in the sight of his wound, red and weeping at about five inches in length—a clean cut despite its obvious depth. It made his stomach churn.

A clatter sounded then, and Jon snapped his head to see Ramsay pulling out a plastic syringe, needleless and filled with amber-brown liquid.

At its reveal, Jon’s stomach tightened even more—his head beginning to swim. And after a few paralyzed moments, Jon couldn’t hold back any longer, and he stuttered through a question, his nerves having gotten the better of him. “What—what’s that for?” he asked, trying desperately to force an air of outward casualty.

But Ramsay smiled knowingly all the same. “Betadine, to wash out your wound—wouldn’t want you to get an infection!”

And briefly comforted that there was yet to be any contact with needles, Jon let out a sigh of relief, watching as Ramsay proceeded to grip his knee, holding Jon’s leg still and readying the syringe. And then, with a firm press of the plastic plunger, the liquid began to shoot out. 

The pain surprised Jon at first—the Betadine warm and stinging—and he hissed in response, gritting his teeth to quell his groans as his leg jerked in Ramsay’s hold.

“Steady,” Ramsay chided, holding firm.

And so Jon took a deep breath, trying his best to ignore the wash of pain, which radiated from his leg. But the moment soon passed, as it took only a few seconds for the syringe to empty, the flush of the solution sterilizing Jon’s wound—now drying quickly under the heat of the lamp.

Ramsay retreated at that, clucking his approval. But for his part, Jon thought he might be sick, his muscles tense and trembling as he lay on the table, screwing his eyes shut—utterly defenseless to his own rising alarm, its hold equally as debilitating as the straps, which bound him.

So helpless, Jon just listened next, as Ramsay pumped several globs of sanitizing gel into his cupped palms—listened to the sounds of Ramsay’s hands rubbing together; the sharp smell of alcohol distinct to Jon’s nose. 

“I’m afraid you’ve made it so I won’t be able to use gloves,” Ramsay said calmly, his words prompting the return of Jon’s nervous stare. Ramsay waved his injured hand then. “Not with the splint… so,” he took a breath, decidedly resigned in its amusement, “this will just have to do!”

Jon grimaced in answer, his heart hammering in his ribcage as he watched Ramsay peel apart another flat package then, this time revealing a thin, curved needle, roughly three inches in length. A sharply drawn breath was wrenched from Jon’s throat next, his eyelashes fluttering as the telltale signs of nausea began to claw at the cold of his skin.

Ramsay looked up at the sound, chuckling softly before returning his attentions to the table, where he busied himself with threading the needle. 

And as had happened many times before, Jon’s vision began to predictably spot, his head clouding. “Ramsay—I—“ he started, his voice desperate in warning, loathe at the wholeness of his blinking powerlessness.

But Ramsay didn’t let Jon finish, shooting out his splinted hand to steady Jon’s thigh—his fingers squeezing firmly. “Now,” Ramsay said, raising the needle with his other hand. “I’d say this won’t hurt a bit, but that would be a lie.”

And with that, Ramsay lowered the needle, prompting Jon’s immediate loss of consciousness.

Several minutes later, Jon’s eyelids began to stir—batting open after a few more confused seconds. And lifting his head, Jon could see Ramsay working—three closely spaced sutures already closing the top of his wound, their knots neat and black; the needle dancing just behind, its gleaming curve tugging at the pink split of Jon’s skin.

And at the sight, Jon passed out once more, only to be awoken, after another indiscernible passage of time, by the cold splash of water on his face.

He came to sputtering then, to the view of Ramsay looming above, a pitcher cocked in hand—the results of its icy outpouring plastering Jon’s hair to his forehead in several sweeps of sticking, tangled strands. Jon spat and gurgled through his waking, surprise and discomfort seeping tangibly through the blackness of his woozy haze.

“Oh good—I thought I’d lost you for a moment.” Ramsay laughed. “You really should see yourself—you’re whiter than a sheet… and all because of one little piece of metal.” Ramsay said, grinning as Jon strained in his binds to catch another glimpse of his leg—the reddened gash now halfway stitched. “But don’t worry, I’ll be done soon.”

And Jon could already feel his eyes rolling back in his head by the time Ramsay returned the needle to his wound—entering the vulnerable clutch of darkness yet again.

***

When Jon awoke for his final time, it was to the sensation of water pouring down his chest, to the flat of his belly, and then to his groin—his cock retracting weakly beneath the sopping fabric of his shorts.

And a groan rumbled from Jon’s chest in response, as he struggled to raise his head, finding (much to his relief) that the wound was now fully sutured, its knots professional-looking in care—the pain palpable all the same.

“All stitched up—finished!” Ramsay announced.

And at the declaration, Jon dropped his head back against the table, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths as the stirrings of relief began to tingle at his fingertips.

“You were a model patient—very _still_ ,” Ramsay said, chuckling. “Though I must say, I’m a bit disappointed that you weren’t able to see my handiwork in progress. I’m very good with a needle, you know.”

Jon swallowed his whine, licking his lips, their skin dry.

“But it’s no matter… we have more important things to attend to!” Ramsay said eagerly.

Jon’s stomach dropped then, at the thought of any further suffering, his blood icing at Ramsay’s words. But in the throes of his exhaustion, Jon prayed he might have misheard—shuddering weakly as Ramsay placed a hand to Jon’s forehead, only to then curl his fingers, sweeping Jon’s sodden curls to the side and humming gently as he did so.

Yet the moment soon broke, as abruptly, a log shifted in the fire, causing the flames to hiss and spit; casting Ramsay’s skin in a yellow glow—its heat illuminating the cruel gleam of his gaze.

“What kind of things?” Jon asked, his voice straining.

Ramsay laughed lightly, its patient force blowing swiftly through both nostrils. “Let’s just say, there are still some… _alterations_ left to make,” he smiled.

And worrying his bottom lip beneath the caps of his two front teeth, Jon sharply snapped his head to the side, glancing nervously at the needle resting discarded on the table—the threat of further stitching sending another bout of faintness rushing through his blood. 

Jon’s words caught then, high in his throat as he struggled to mask his trepidation, “But… they’re done up—you said so,” he rasped, his voice slight amidst his rising panic—hopelessly desperate for his words to hold some sway, as if the declaration might remind Ramsay that indeed, Jon’s suffering had well and reached its deserved culmination.

“The stitches, _yes_ …“ Ramsay said, the words lilting sluggishly off his tongue, “but there’s still the matter of your punishment. You—“ Ramsay laughed, a spark of amused clarity flashing in his eyes. “You didn’t think _they_ were your punishment, did you?” 

And when Jon noticeably blanched, the fall of his face divulging the tremors of his obvious despondency, Ramsay only laughed louder, throwing his neck back and baring the points of his teeth. 

“No!” Ramsay cried in apparent disbelief, “They were a generosity—so you don’t lose the leg!” He smacked his hand to Jon’s thigh then, just parallel to the stitched wound—the force of the impact causing Jon to yelp. “No—no,” Ramsay continued, ignoring the pain of Jon’s muffled swallows, “your punishment is… well, it’s something else entirely—something you won’t soon forget.”

Jon blinked rapidly, his mouth dry and his tongue thick as he searched for the words, which might save him—the perfect combination of syllables that would cure Ramsay of his madness and Jon of his capture. But of course the words never came, and Jon simply lay his head back on the table, craving just a moment of cool respite as he awaited what was next to come.

“You know,” Ramsay started then, reaching out to wrap the fingers of his good hand lightly around Jon’s neck—the touch causing Jon to still, his eyes black and wide. “Anatomy is a fascinating subject…” Ramsay continued, hooking his fingers beneath Jon’s jaw and squeezing.

The pressure was instantly overwhelming—drawn from the press of a nerve—and Jon hissed from the knotting pain of it, jerking in Ramsay’s grip. But still, Ramsay maintained the hold for several long, unhindered seconds before letting up, dropping his hand to the swell of Jon’s shoulder.

The pain had been like nothing Jon had felt before—expert and specific, as if Ramsay knew exactly where to push and pull to extract such breathless whimpers from his victim. 

And so released, Jon pulled in a shaking breath as Ramsay began to trace a path along Jon’s skin, starting down the quivering tendons of Jon’s neck and then across the smooth, flat of Jon’s chest, down the laddered dips of his ribs (their bones pronounced from lack of sustenance and exercise), and then finally to the lean groove of Jon’s sternum.

Stilling then, Ramsay turned his fist, resting its vise at the base of Jon’s ribcage—its presence yet mercifully light as Ramsay once more launched into his speech. “… All different parts with different pressures—different _pains_.” And with that, Ramsay pushed down again, this time digging his knuckles beneath the ridge of Jon’s breastbone—sending another pointed throb radiating from muscle stretched thin over bone.

Jon whimpered, squirming to relieve the pain, his head fuzzy as Ramsay pressed harder on the point. 

When Ramsay eventually drew back, he paused, staring down at Jon with a look of eager pity. And then, as if wholly roused by Jon’s utter helplessness, he dragged his hand down Jon’s stomach; fingers spread possessively—their meandering route halting briefly at the tattered waistband of Jon’s shorts. 

And though Jon had expected it, he still shuddered as Ramsay slipped a hand quietly beneath Jon’s boxers, taking the base of Jon’s member gently between forefinger and thumb, before leaning down to put his lips at Jon’s ear. 

And as Ramsay began to speak, Jon frowned, his brow dampening and his breathing stilled. “But that’s the beauty of it, really,” Ramsay said, “when you get down to it—down to meat and bone—we’re all so predictably the same.”

Ramsay squeezed his fingers then, causing Jon to tense—his cock caught mercilessly in the crush of Ramsay’s grip; the discomfort tearing yet another strangled grunt from Jon’s lips.

But Ramsay pinched for only several more moments, before relaxing. And so tutting, he then removed the final cover of Jon’s skivvies, folding the remaining fabric to the side, and smoothing a hand along the naked slope of Jon’s privates, as if to gently arrange their position—Ramsay’s touch as falsely soothing as the smile on his lips.

Jon, for his part, had shut his eyes, his hands splayed anxiously on the metal of the table—sweaty fingertips slipping along the surface, the heat of their perspiration leaving ten fogged rings in their wake. 

“I had hoped you might have learned your place,” Ramsay said, stepping away from the table and walking slowly out of Jon’s sight.

And through his own rattling breaths, Jon listened—listened to the sounds of the fire, the scrape of metal, and the sudden shifting of an upset log—feeling decidedly more naked than he ever had before.

But it was only after a few more moments that the noises stopped, and Ramsay’s footsteps picked up once more, signaling his approaching return.

“But,” Ramsay cooed woefully, continuing his earlier thought, “Pride is such a stubborn thing.”

And with that, he reappeared at Jon’s side, a long iron rod in hand, its bulbous end boasting the flat of a tangled pattern fused perpendicularly to the shaft—the outline burning red-hot.

At the sight, Jon’s mouth fell open, lips parted in dismay marred only by his confusion.

Ramsay smiled knowingly in response, and with a pointed twist, he spun the pole in his fingers then, turning its tip towards Jon so as to reveal the clearly identifiable shape welded to its metal end—one thick, glowing letter _B_. 

_A brand…_

Jon’s voice caught in his throat, and he ran his tongue across the grooves of his dry lips. “Ramsay…” he rasped, the fear palpable on his breath. 

But Ramsay ignored Jon’s unspent plea. “What do you think this stands for?” he asked instead, leering as he swayed the brand back and forth— _back and forth_ —his eyes as light as they were cruel. 

Jon’s brow knitted in answer. “I—“ he started, his chest rising and falling with increasing speed. “I don’t—“

_What do you want me to say?_

But Jon’s words died in his throat, the angry red of the brand fully distracting, dancing as it was before Jon’s eyes. And so silent, Jon merely swallowed, his muscles tense.

“I’ve asked you a question, bastard,” Ramsay said then, pushing the brand forward, so it was just inches from Jon’s face—its sizzling light caught in the wet reflection of Jon’s pupils. “The _B_ —what does it stand for?”

And from this close, Jon could feel the heat—taste the searing bite of metal and hear the hissing of its fever. A wave of alarm rushed through him then, and with a desperate thrash, Jon began to tug at his binds—limbs straining frantically against the hold of leather.

But at the ferocity of Jon’s struggle, Ramsay tisked his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head with disapproval and shifting the brand yet closer—his free hand diving simultaneously to still Jon’s struggle, wrapping threateningly around Jon’s arm. “No, no—there will be none of that,” Ramsay chuckled, his voice low. “Now…” he said, “Give us your guess!”

As it was, the brand now rested half an inch from the tip of Jon’s nose, and only through the immediacy of self-preservation, did Jon managed to keep himself still, everything inside him otherwise screaming to scratch and bite and shout.

Lying there, Jon’s legs felt weak—his body bare and fully vulnerable beneath Ramsay’s vicious stare, the woozy crush of anxiety unable to provide distraction, let alone direction for what little fight he had left.

And so, it was with an angry frown that, amidst the desolate uncertainty of whatever might come next, Jon began to think on Ramsay’s query—stifling his protests and sucking in his cheeks before spitting out the first of his forced conjectures.

“ _Brand_.” Jon said sourly—the force of his indignance obscuring much notable doubt in his answer; anger doing well in masking fear.

And to Jon’s momentary relief, Ramsay appeared amused by the simplicity of the answer, the brand’s brief retreat the clearest indication of the man’s satisfaction.

But the reprieve didn’t last long.

“No—“ Ramsay chortled slowly then—for whatever contentment the man had previously shown had now dissolved into the snap of keen savagery, with Ramsay trailing the brand south and circling its shape lazily towards the center of Jon’s chest before pausing anew. “That’s much too obvious… You’ll have to be more clever! Now, try again,” he crowed with mock patience. “ _B_ for…?”

Jon lifted his head, watching the brand with wary dismay as Ramsay swung it casually back and forth, the motion blurring its shape into a dizzy rush of crimson streaks. The sight might have been beautiful under different circumstances, but as it was now, the movement was merely hypnotic—resigned as Jon was to the immobile torment of it all.

_Focus—B… B…_

“ _Bolton_ ,” Jon ventured then—his tone slightly more honest in its assuredness. 

“Good guess,” Ramsay laughed before sighing. “But I’m afraid it’s not the answer.” He lowered the brand then, hovering its glow just an inch above Jon’s chest. “Guess again—you’re getting warmer!” And then, Ramsay’s face fell, appearing sheepish for a moment, as if he suddenly regretting a bad joke. “Though,” he chuckled, his grin returning, “I suppose you must know that already—surely you can feel it.”

And indeed Jon could—the sweat pooling in the divot of his sternum, his skin decidedly warmer following the brand’s readjustment. 

It was then that Jon started to shake, just as the brand was dragged to the left—bobbing threateningly above his heart.

Jon held his breath now, trapping the plod of its rhythm in his chest—fighting to stay motionless, lest he drive the sensitive flesh of his nipple against the scorch of the brand’s suspension.

Still, snared by Ramsay’s command, Jon opened and closed his mouth fruitlessly in answer, before croaking out his next guess. “ _Bastard?_ ” he said after a beat—his voice but a strained whisper; any shame over speaking the word surrendered in the desperation of its levy.

And while again, Ramsay seemed pleased with the guess, it soon became clear that the man’s patience had finally worn thin.

“No… What else?” Ramsay said slowly then, his eyes alight as he rolled the iron towards the crease of Jon’s hips, down the grooves of Jon’s marbled torso only to stop, lingering the brand just above the jagged line of stitched thread.

For his part, Jon’s stare followed the motion—eyes glazed black and darting as the seconds ticked by—now fully at a loss for words.

“You’re too slow!” Ramsay said suddenly, cutting off Jon’s charge at voicing another answer. “So I’ll have a go!” he paused then to run his tongue along his teeth. “Could it mean _behave_? You seem to have trouble with that one…”

“Or perhaps... _B_ for _bare_?” Ramsay continued, his eyes raking hungrily over Jon’s nakedness.

And with Ramsay’s utterances, he redirected the balance of their game altogether. For from this point on, Jon understood that Ramsay would neither demand nor grant any more of Jon’s speculations—the man’s amusement tumbling now into the eager play of a new set of rules; rules that reaffirmed his role as master—of judge, jury, and executioner—and rules that stripped Jon of all final illusions of control, now nothing more than a helpless bystander to Ramsay’s derangement.

Jon’s body slumped at this realized shift, as if the rigidity had been syphoned from his bones—the dread of his subjection twisting feverishly in his belly.

“Or _B_ for _brave_? You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Ramsay asked then, “You’d like to think you fought valiantly? Like me to tell you that your little escape attempt was as brilliant as it was daring?” 

And at the words, Jon pulled his eyes to Ramsay’s face, meeting the man’s stare and glaring with the final dregs of all his unfettered rage—its heat as raw and bitter as the scowl weighing on his lips.

“Ah, _there_ it is,” Ramsay purred, ostensibly proud at the successful stirring of Jon’s fury. “That _look_ … But let me tell you something, bastard,” he said then, his voice dropping as he skated the brand to Jon’s stomach, resting it just a hair above his navel. And as he continued his words, Ramsay reached out with splinted fingers, taking hold of Jon’s cock. “You were neither brave nor brilliant.” 

As he talked, Ramsay began to roll Jon’s shaft flat against his hitching belly, balancing its softened weight just beneath the burning letter _B_. “You were reckless… And you lost.”

Jon shut his eyes amidst a whimper then, trying best he could to anticipate the inevitable pain he would suffer—the tender skin of his manhood as pale and supple as the rest of his prone body, pressed as it was in the heel of Ramsay’s palm.

“But no—that’s not it either,” Ramsay said, drawing back the heat. 

And Jon couldn’t stop the relieved rush of breath then, which broke through at the retraction—lifting his head and staring desperately down, only to be faced with the pink head of his cock pointing limply towards him, its base still framed by the cool metal of Ramsay’s braced hand.

“No… what about…” Ramsay faltered in false thought before tightening the clutch of his hand, the motion coupled by the digging of a nail—its crescent shape now pressed against the seam of Jon’s scrotum.

And Jon let out a startled cry in answer, twisting his hips in a frantic attempt to buck Ramsay off. But the man’s fist only tightened further at Jon’s struggle. “ _B_ for _balls_!” Ramsay shouted excitedly then, pulling Jon’s sac yet farther from his body and lowering the brand to the curve of their throbbing bulge. 

And while the brand had yet to make contact, Jon could already smell the searing of small hairs and feel the pain of the heat. He felt dizzy in his panic, his teeth grit in looming fear—steeled in the agony of vertigo.

And so in this state, Jon wasn’t prepared for Ramsay to let go. But all the same, when the man did, Jon instantly tucked his thighs together, as if to both sooth and protect his battered balls.

“Though I suppose they’ve received quite the bruising as of late…” Ramsay said.

And something in the way the man’s voice dropped compelled Jon to open his eyes—biting back nausea and tears as he turned to face the man stood so ominously above him.

“Hmmm…” At the eye contact, a cruel smile stretched across Ramsay’s face—something flashing in the ferment of his stare as the brand was dragged pointedly upwards, coming to its still in the space between Jon’s navel and hipbone. 

“How about _B_ for _beg_?” Ramsay growled. 

And with that, the searing metal was pressed to Jon’s skin.

The pain was immediate—encompassing and loud—and as the heat continued to push, Jon only vaguely registered the sounds of his ripping grunts turned ragged groans turned angry screams.

“Beg and I’ll stop, bastard!” Ramsay cried above Jon’s noise, driving his weight more forcefully still onto the iron rod, evoking the sizzled smell of burning flesh.

But even as the brand was pressed harder, something deep inside Jon kept him from shouting out—the last shreds of his bargained dignity not yet ready for sacrifice, preserved only by the raging of Jon’s inner fire.

That is, until Ramsay’s next words, lilting clearly through the haze of pain—cleaner and more sinister than any lasting burn.

“You don’t break easily… not like your brother—Robb.”

Jon snapped his head towards Ramsay then, heartbeat hammering dully against his temples. “What—?“ And while Jon had intended some clarity or demand, through the pain and panic, he only managed the single, husked word.

Nonetheless, Ramsay seemed to understand—his brows arching above an excited sneer. “Beg and I’ll tell you,” he said, plunging the pressure of the brand deeper still.

Jon cried out in frenzied agony then, struggling to garner some coherence of thought; distantly praying that playing Ramsay’s game could save his brother yet.

“Ramsay—?” Jon managed this time.

“Beg!”

And then without question, Jon did. “Ramsay—Ramsay please—“ he started, his words clipped in anguish.

“You’ll have to do better than that!” Ramsay smiled, the brand’s pressure yet unrelenting.

“Alright!” Jon gritted—his voice cracking. “Ramsay, please! Please—please don’t hurt him!”

“Oh… I’m afraid it’s too late,” Ramsay said coldly—the burn as hot as ever.

And if Jon had had the energy, he might have wept then—fully exhausted in the throes of his despair. “Please,” he gasped. “What did—? What have you done? Ramsay—please! My brother—” Jon howled—the grief of his blubbering shouts heavier than any brand.

“Don’t beg for him, bastard. I want you to beg for yourself… beg me to stop.”

“Alright—alright!” Jon cried, willingly submitting.

_Anything._

“Ramsay, please stop—please!” And while these first words were babbled within the confines of compliance, the next were born of genuine, mounting panic. “Please! Ramsay, please! Please—please! Stop—I can’t—!”

And to the immensity of Jon’s relief, Ramsay removed the brand then—dragging the sticking, broken pieces of Jon’s flesh with it and leaving an angry, swollen letter _B_ in its wake, its mark red and shining in the firelight.

And with the immediacy of the pain now gone, Jon could gather some continuity of speech. So he took a deep breath and begged again—his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper slipping feebly through his lips. “Please, Ramsay. My brother—“ Jon swallowed then, tasting blood—vaguely registering that at some point, he must have bit his tongue. “Robb?”

At the question, Ramsay walked away—out of Jon’s sight and back towards the fire. It was then that Jon heard him sigh. “I told you not to do anything stupid… and yet what did you do?" Ramsay said, his voice drifting ominously to where Jon lay. “You made quite a lot of work for me and my men.”

“Ramsay,” Jon called weakly. “Ramsay, I’m sorry. I won’t—but my—Robb?”

“Yes… I’m afraid he has suffered for your defiance… A freak accident—an explosion really—something the police have attributed to an overcharged car battery… but you and I both know that they are sorely misguided on that count.”

Ramsay returned then, standing next to Jon and angling the light towards Jon’s belly, as if to inspect his handiwork. And he hummed his contentment then, before turning to meet Jon’s bleary stare.

“ _B_ for _bomb_.” Ramsay said coolly.

And Jon closed his eyes gently at the words, all fight drained—replaced only by the queasy throb of grief. “Is he—?“ Jon started then amidst the blackness, his voice failing.

But Ramsay appeared to comprehend all the same. “ _Dead_?” he clarified. 

Jon nodded, his brows furrowed and his face pale.

“No,” Ramsay answered. “But I’m sorry to say he isn’t awake either. There’s shrapnel in his lung—I’m told it just missed his heart.” Ramsay licked his lips. “The doctors aren’t sure when he’ll wake… _if_ he wakes, that is.”

Jon felt the prick of tears in his eyes—his throat tightening.

“Your family seems gravely concerned—especially that wife of his. She was in the car too, you know?” Ramsay paused, as if in thought, before speaking anew. “A real beauty she is— _Talisa_ —it’s no wonder your brother fell for her.”

Jon pictured her then—the woman his brother loved—dark of hair and gentle-eyed. Jon had been the best man at their wedding, if it could be called that—the intimate gathering thrown together at the last minute; arranged if only to appease Catelyn. 

But it had been lovely still, Jon remembered. Sansa had strung lights from the branches of the Weirwood and Robb and Talisa said their vows beneath its shade—the family standing witness.

 _Robb, I’m so sorry_.

And lying there on the table picturing Robb and his family, Jon could feel the blood rush from his head—too bereaved to cry out. His knees were trembling, his belly stinging, and his body fully sapped of energy.

“This is what happens, bastard,” Ramsay said then. “This is what happens when you forget your place.”

And Jon felt bile rise in his throat at that, curling in his binds to fight the sensation—whimpering all the while.

“But,” Ramsay brushed the damp tendrils again from Jon’s brow, “you won’t forget it now—will you?” he asked then, his touch soft.

Jon shut his eyes and shook his head feebly, waiting for Ramsay’s next direction.

“Good. Now, I want you to look—it really is a lovely sight. Go ahead,” Ramsay prodded, “look down.”

And so Jon did, the sight as horrifyingly unreal as everything else that he had suffered—the letter thick and pink and pusing above the white carve of his hip.

Ramsay let Jon have a few moments then before speaking again. “I’m going to unbind you now—and we’ll walk back to your room… I won’t need to call my men, will I? Won’t need the handcuffs?”

Jon took a shaky breath and shook his head once more.

“Excellent!”

And following the gleeful exclamation, Ramsay made work of undoing Jon’s ties, buckles and leather clacking and unclipping _one, two, three_ , and then _four_ times.

Still, once freed, Jon daren’t move, shifting only when Ramsay gripped him firmly underneath his arms, pulling him up to a seated position.

Though for Jon, the movement was too quick, and in the next moment, he was spewing over the side of the table—the watery contents splashing to the floor as Jon heaved and coughed, his hair hanging limply in his face.

“Oh dear,” Ramsay said in mock concern as Jon wiped his mouth, spitting bitterly to the stones. “But it's no matter—Grunt will clean it up.”

Ramsay yanked Jon to a shaky stand then and handed him a blanket—its material thin and itchy. Jon wrapped it around his shoulders, idly moving a hand to cover his front, careful all the while not to bump the sear of his fresh wound.

“Now, let’s go—watch your step.”

And so in a daze, Jon was guided through the hallways and back to the room where he had spent the prior several weeks—his chains lying in wait beneath the heavy close metal of the door.

“You’ve lost some privileges, I’m afraid.” Ramsay said, unlocking the door and pushing Jon into the room’s narrow entrance—his tone authoritative. 

And once inside, the two men came to a stop, staring at the blank wall before them, its stones so achingly familiar to Jon.

“So it’s back to the wall for now.”

Jon nodded unfazed, and then with the grim determination of a man facing the gallows, Jon walked autonomously to the opposite wall—needing no further provocation to slide down its slope and sit, the blanket riding up with the motion and the concrete now cool against Jon’s bare skin. 

And as he settled, Jon bent slightly forward in a show of submission, so as to allow Ramsay to properly shackle his hands, already laced behind his back. So with a pleased chuckle, Ramsay did just that.

For his part, Jon couldn’t care less, as while Ramsay worked, he found himself thoroughly preoccupied by the horrors that had befallen his family. And so picturing Robb’s face and Catelyn and Talisa’s cries, Jon’s eyes welled with tears—his breathing picking up in tandem, hurrying swiftly to the brink of hyperventilation as the reality began to set in.

“Settle down,” Ramsay chided, the locks clicking into place before he stepped back.

And now, with a tear rolling down Jon’s cheek, he looked up to face his captor—the apple of his throat bobbing miserably on his swallow.

“Don’t look at me like that, bastard—this is _your_ fault! You knew there would be consequences for your behavior.”

And at that, several more tears leaked out—the words causing Jon to hang his head in shame. But whatever privacy the gesture might have otherwise granted was shattered quickly, as Jon soon startled—an object shoved suddenly beneath his nose, its shape hauntingly familiar in the ease of its recognizability… an object from a lifetime ago.

_Her hairbrush…_

Jon jerked his head up in panic then—more tears flowing as he imagined Ygritte’s freckled face, remembering how she would swear beneath her breath as she stood at their sink, dragging the brush through her untamable hair.

_I can’t—_

“You recognize this I assume?” Ramsay asked.

“Ramsay—you didn’t—she’s not—?” Jon choked.

And to Jon’s tattered relief, Ramsay shook his head. “She’s safe—for now. But whether or not she stays that way… Well that’s up to you,” Ramsay smiled, pointing a finger towards Jon’s chest.

Red of face, Jon sucked in a breath then, hiccupping and sniffling as he looked down to the brush resting atop the cross of his folded legs—several tendrils of red hair still snared in its coarse bristles.

“Now,” Ramsay said, “I expect you’ll need some time to yourself—some time to think… so,” he said with a casual clap of his hands, “I’ll see you tomorrow, bastard.”

And with that, Ramsay turned on heel and left the room, the door shutting heavily in his wake.

The resulting silence was deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to half-life (duh) because she's the best. And also thanks to Hawkens and a few other people who know who they are.
> 
> Please let me know if I've left off any tags.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: fire, burns, bombings (mention), non-consensual drugging, bondage, threats of violence, rape/non-con, pornography (mention), graphic description
> 
> This is... _ugh_. Please let me know if there are mistakes or if I haven't properly tagged something.

_Two Years Prior:_

Jon watched with eyes wide as the fire roared before him, licking through the shattered windows of the weakened building. The sight of such force always managed to still his breath and this time was no different.

But he didn’t stare for much longer, as suddenly, Commander Mormont emerged from the collapsing doorway, clutching a soot-faced little girl to his chest—Pyp and Grenn close on his heels, their gloved hands empty as they followed their chief towards the nearby emergency vehicles. 

_Three people… the building manager had said three…_

With his stomach sinking, Jon spurred into motion then, chasing his station-brothers towards the open back of the ambulance, where they were settling the girl, her chest heaving with her every spluttering cough as the medical technicians worked to calm her.

For several strained moments, Jon stood watching in impatient silence, shifting from foot to foot until Mormont finally stepped back, having fully relinquished his hold on the child. And when he did, Jon grabbed him by the arm, pulling his attention.

“The man said there were three!” Jon said urgently, words rolling thick and muffled through the plastic of his mask.

Mormont’s eyes flashed with tired warning then, and he took a deep breath before speaking, meeting Jon’s agitation with a stern stare. “Jon, the building is about to collapse—the fire’s already made it up the stairs. We’ve done all we could.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “But—“

“That’s the end of it, Snow—now _leave_ it,” Mormont said, his tone strict and forceful. “Help Tarly with the hoses.”

And with a strained huff, Jon nodded. But as Mormont stalked off, Jon found himself turning back to face the ambulance, where the girl was still sat wailing—fresh tears trailing tracks through the grime on her cheeks as the medics fussed hurriedly over the burns on her arms.

“Mummy!” she cried. “Mummy— _mummy_!”

Jon wavered for a moment, catching a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and biting down on his lip, thoroughly lamenting Mormont’s orders. For duty came easily when there were no consequences. But now, watching this little girl cry—seeing the desperation in her eyes—it stirred Jon’s impulse and settled his resolve.

_Oh, Seven hells!_

Jon hastened back towards the girl then. And squaring once more before the open doors of the ambulance, he looked down on the child, his belly twisting. 

“Your mum—she’s in there?” he shouted over the noise, pointing to the nearest building—one of several connected apartments.

The girl looked up at Jon with blinking eyes and nodded then, “yes—upstairs—“ she hiccupped as her voice caught. “And my little sister, Willa!”

And so firm in the rashness of his decision, Jon nodded in answer and then turned on heel, sprinting through the blackened snow towards the doorway he had watched his brothers exit just moments before—the red lights of the trucks flashing all around him, bright and blaring as if competing with the orange glow of the growing flames. 

As he ran, snow and ash whipped past him. And it was only through the heavy sucks of his breath, that Jon registered voices calling out behind him—their words vague and distant. 

“Jon, don’t!”

“Dammit, Snow!”

“Jon!”

But Jon ignored the shouts, and stepping through the doorway’s threshold, he was immediately accosted by the thick weight of smoke—flames darting through the clouds of smog, brief flashes of orange and gold amidst grey and black.

To his familiar dismay, once inside, Jon could barely see through their plumes, but he knew the layout of these buildings well; the wildling projects where Ygritte had grown up and where she still spent so much of her time. And so he soon began to edge his way along the wall, feeling with heavy gloves for the expected knob of the staircase’s banister.

And when he’d found it, Jon wrapped his hand firmly around its rail, running the toe of his boot across the lip of the first step as he did so. To his relief, the wood held his weight, offering little protest beyond a slight creaking, its sound nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding popping and hissing of the apartment’s paneled floors.

So Jon pushed forth then, taking the stairs one at a time until he reached the second floor—fire flashing all around its narrow space, the thin walls already partially stripped down to their blackened, wooden frames.

_Seven hells…_

Jon took a deep breath, smoke and ash filtering through his mask and settling thick on his tongue, before calling out.

“Hello!” He cried; his lungs straining as he struggled to raise his voice above the din. “Hello!”

_Nothing._

At the silence, Jon let out a disappointed grunt and again picked up his pace, moving down the hallway with careful, heavy steps.

At the first door, he paused. It had been left open, the room filled now with billowing black clouds, its floorboards warped; already half collapsed beneath the churning smog. And as it was, Jon could feel the heat from the doorway—matting densely through the weight of his gloves and jacket and causing the sweat to drip from his brow.

“Hello!”

_I don’t have much time._

And as if in answer to Jon’s stirring dread, the glass of a nearby window shattered, eaves groaning alongside its blast. 

So Jon set back on course then, sliding flush against the wall, round the corner, and onto the second doorway, knowing well the newfound threat of each step—every lesson from his trainings urging that he turn back.

But Jon carried on regardless, reckless in the heat of his determination. And before long, he reached his destination—stood now before the heavy oak door, the fogged sucks of his breathing echoing steadily inside his mask, the smell of its rubber mingling with the bite of his sweat.

Jon opened the door then, turning away at the sudden burst of heat and smoke. But he regained his composure soon enough, and returned to his full height, peering into the blazing room.

The smoke was less dense here, but the flames were no less fierce, running in furious, flashing strips along the length of the walls and floors.

Jon heard a voice call out then, its sound desperate and raw amidst the fray.

“Here!” it cried.

At its sound, Jon whipped his head to the left, looking to the opposite wall to see a woman huddling beneath the frame of a desk, a small girl clutched in her arms, her eyes closed.

It took Jon only a few strides to reach the pair, crouching down urgently before the woman. On his knees, Jon reached out to rest a hand on the child’s back, relieved to find her breathing steadily, albeit shallowly. And with this feeble assurance loosening the knot in his throat, Jon stretched out his other hand to the girl’s mother, offering her to take it.

“C’mon,” he prompted, surprised when the woman shook her head and gestured to the floor.

Jon followed her gaze then, all the way to her leg, poking out from the desk’s cover; trapped bloody and bent beneath several thick pieces of twisted metal—the leftover wreckage of some collapsed piping.

_Gods._

Jon grunted his understanding, and keenly aware of the heat on his back, he leaned forward in answer, beginning to yank and pull at the debris, his efforts determined despite their relative ineffectiveness.

But his meager progress was stilled by the press of a hand on his shoulder, its weight accompanied by the small girl’s rattling cough, its sound weak and muffled against her mother’s chest.

“She has asthma,” the woman said then, her gray eyes shining with her unspoken plea. “She needs to get out—to her sister.”

Jon took a deep breath.

“Do you understand me?”

Jon looked to the girl, her face pale and her eyes fluttering—barely conscious. He nodded slowly, the duty of his answer chilling his blood despite the warmth of the surrounding flames.

He returned his stare once more to the woman, meeting her eyes, as if to reaffirm his promise.

“Give her to me,” Jon said, his voice hoarse as he began to fumble with the straps of his regulator. And as the woman pressed a firm kiss to her daughter’s forehead, Jon pulled the mask from his face, knowing well the dangers of such an action, but caring little in the moment.

All the same, the first unfiltered breath came as a shock to his system—rough and searing. And eyes watering, he coughed into the crook of his elbow and then reached out to take the girl.

Her body was limp in his arms, and her face pale. So Jon lifted her gently, pushing the hair from her eyes before securing his mask around her head, checking briefly to ensure that the tank hooked through his jacket still had air left to give. 

And when this was done, Jon and the woman both paused for a moment, watching the cloud of the girl’s paltry breaths fog against the plastic of the mask’s facepiece.

But the moment was shattered by the nearby blast of another window. 

Jon flinched at the noise, tucking the girl into his chest and looking again to the woman trapped before him, her lips parted as she in turn looked to her child—her stare potent, as if soaking in the final sight of her daughter.

“I’ll come back for you,” Jon said then, the ring of his lips caught round with the sturdy force of his intention.

But when the woman nodded, Jon could see in her eyes that she didn’t believe him. “Go,” she urged.

And so Jon did.

Without looking back, he pushed off from the floor, moving swiftly from the room into the hallway and then round the corner. But the sight he was met with was less than comforting.

Black smoke now billowed up from the staircase and into the corridor. He’d have to crawl. 

But just on the cusp of the realization, the foundation beneath Jon collapsed, sending him plunging down to the apartment’s first story amidst a cloud of flames and splinters.

He fell fast, legs spread wide as he twisted his body so as to protect the girl.

Jon landed on his back with a heavy thud, the force of the blow knocking the wind from his chest. And on the melting floor of what might have once been a family’s kitchen, Jon found himself gasping and spluttering, writhing and wincing as he turned again on instinct to cover the girl, shielding her body from the rain of wood and ash that followed their fall.

He grunted as a piece of wood nicked his temple, hooking just around the socket of his eye and leaving a clean trail of blood in its wake.

But Jon didn’t have long to dwell on the pain, for on this level, the strength of the flames was twofold. 

So adrenaline spiking, Jon pushed to his hands and knees, ash caught in his hair like speckled snow, and inspected the girl quickly for any damage. And when he was satisfied that she remained both unmarred and still conscious, Jon wrapped her in his arms, pulling her once more to his chest before beginning his crawl.

He scrambled over broken boards then, fumbling through the darkness for direction as bits of wood and glass gave way around him.

The soot was heavy in the air and heavier still in his lungs. And as Jon clambered forth, struggling to orient himself, he could feel the skin of his face begin to sear beneath its sheen of sweat.

He was running out of time, the thunder of the crackling fire an ominous reminder. So with mounting desperation, Jon continued scrabbling through the pitch black, feeling his way blindly.

And after what seemed like an eternity of sliding along the floor and fighting for breath, Jon finally caught sight of the doorframe’s opening, its light shafting through the thick of the smoke.

So on the hurried rush of beating elbows and sliding boots, Jon crawled the final distance towards the outside, propelling himself towards the door and out onto the ashen snow.

With the last dregs of his energy, Jon then stumbled to his feet, wheezing and hacking as he handed the girl to the masked men rushing towards them—his station-brothers, Jon vaguely registered before crumpling once more to his knees and retching violently, his hair hanging limply in his face.

***

Eighteen hours later, Jon felt sore all over. He was seated at his kitchen table, bare feet resting flat against the varnished floor as he stared emptily at a cold cup of tea clutched limply in his hands, its steam long since evaporated.

The hour was well past midnight, and snow swirled lightly outside the kitchen window as the faucet _dripped, dripped, dripped._ But as time went on, Jon began to notice less and less of these things, staring only at the blank surface before him, the hazy flicker of his thoughts nothing more than unreachable blurs.

But after another few minutes of such vacancy, a flash of movement startled Jon from his reveries. And he looked up to see Ygritte padding into the kitchen, rubbing at her eyes as she blinked with bleary interest—one of Jon’s jumpers hanging loose around her thin frame.

He flashed her a perfunctory smile of greeting, the corner of his mouth kicking up slightly—its warmth skipping only briefly to his eyes before settling dark once more.

“I was wondrin’ where you were,” Ygritte drawled softly, her voice still raspy from sleep as she pulled back a chair and seated herself across from him. “It’s three in the mornin’, Jon Snow.”

Jon nodded softly. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said, looking down at his lap then, as if the patterned lines of his flannel pants were suddenly of great interest. 

And painfully aware that Ygritte was now watching his every movement with curious scrutiny, Jon began to fidget his fingers—furling and unfurling them quietly against the table, all the while refusing to meet her searching stare.

But he only endured her attentions for another minute or so before Ygritte spoke again, her voice cutting the heavy silence in the air.

“It’s not yer fault, Jon,” she said gently.

And with a sigh of pent up expectation, Jon looked up without surprise at her words, eyes framed by the dark sweep of his lashes—the knot in his throat bobbing on the force of a deep swallow.

“You weren’t there,” he answered then, his voice hoarse.

“Jon,” Ygritte started, her tone slightly more forceful. “You saved a little girl—a little girl who’ll now get to grow up alongside her sister… that’s no small thing.”

Jon nodded, the gesture hollow. “But their mother…” he rasped then, shame swirling tight in his belly as he fought to find the direction of his next words. “Did you know her? _Karsi?_ ”

Ygritte paused, her lips tightening. “No,” she answered after a beat. “But Tormund did—and from the way he talked about her, it sounds like she loved nothin’ more in the world than her children.” She settled both her elbows on the table, leaning closer. “Ya did right by her, Jon Snow—her girls are safe… you did all ya could.”

Jon’s pulse picked up; his mouth dry. “I should have done more—should have gone in earlier or been more careful or—“ he took a deep breath then, stopping himself from spouting out his every frantic regret. And when Jon spoke again, his words were hushed beneath a shroud of deep sorrow, cut as they were from the very core of his anguish. “Ygritte, I told her I’d come back for her… but I _didn’t_ —I couldn’t save her… and the way she looked at me… I—“

But Ygritte cut him off, scooting her chair back and walking forth to take his face in her hands. “Jon,” she said, her voice firm and desperate. “Jon, _Jon_ ,” she cooed again, repeating his name as if to ground him.

Ygritte bent forward then, pressing her lips to Jon’s forehead and wrapping her arms around him as she settled herself in his lap, careful to move lightly, so as not to knock his bruises. 

And melting to the warmth of Ygritte’s embrace, Jon hugged her tightly in return, burrowing his face into her neck with a suddenness neither one had anticipated; his fumbling hands clutching roughly at her form—starved and greedy for the press of tactile consolation.

And so they sat for several minutes, with Ygritte rubbing her hand gently along Jon’s trembling back—the tension in his limbs lessening gradually with time.

After awhile, Jon pulled back and looked to Ygritte, his smile shy and curt, as if cracked for the first time—its gesture one of conceding thanks.

Ygritte nodded knowingly in answer, running the ribbed edge of her thumb wordlessly across Jon’s softened brow.

“This’ll leave a handsome scar,” she said then, moving as if distracted, to trace the grooved cut, which now circumvented his right eye—her touch light. But she soon grew focused again, staring with renewed purpose and meeting the nakedness of Jon’s upturned gaze. “You’re a good man, Jon Snow,” she said, the words heavy in her mouth. “And you’re brave—but ya can’t save the whole world yerself.”

Jon sighed his acquiescence, knowing well the truth behind Ygritte’s words, even if he wasn’t quite yet able to accept them. “I know,” he said reluctantly.

“You know nothing,” Ygritte answered with a smile, canting her jaw and pressing a quick kiss to Jon’s mouth. “Now,” she said, pulling back to run her hands through his curls, “Let’s get you in’t the bath—ya’ve still got muck in yer hair.”

***

_Present Day:_

Jon hung his head, shivering quietly as he stared down at the hairbrush, flanked as it was between the splay of his pale knees.

He’d been sat as such for hours—the pain of his brand having long ago dissipated into the steady heat of fraying numbness—his tears now dry, staining dull all color in his cheeks. 

But either way, amidst pain or tears or tremors, Jon didn’t have much a mind to care, focused, mesmerized, as he was on the brush—a concrete artifact of a world he’d left behind.

The brush didn’t belong. And just days before, Jon himself might have felt similarly out of place. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

For this room had become his world—this porcelain sink and grimy mirror, the standing toilet and concrete bricks. Jon knew every inch of it, just as the room knew every inch of him—its cold floor sucking the warmth from his skin while the dark of Jon’s spanning shadow likewise choked the light from the surrounding stones.

They were a part of each other, Jon understood—almost as if one could not exist without the other.

His brow wrinkled at the thought, Jon’s chest aching as he then tried to picture himself back in the life he once knew, as if to somehow prove himself separate from these walls that defined him. 

So with eyes closed and hands clenched, Jon tried to picture himself laughing with Ygritte. But when he did so, he found to his anguish, that Ygritte’s laughter was dry and his own hollow. So Jon shook his head and tried again, focusing on a scene of amicable bickering with Sansa—a rather common occurrence whenever the pair was together. But when Jon saw her eyes, they were bored and listless—his own spirit likewise dulled. And with mounting frustration barring the rise of panic, Jon then tried to imagined himself drinking with Robb, sitting as they oft did in Ned Stark’s old study—Robb always seated in Ned’s leather armchair and Jon sat to the side, his legs crossed on a smaller, less assuming perch. But even with the smell of dust and leather teasing at Jon’s memory, he found that his recollection of the ale tasted sour. And when Jon tried to refocus his mind on picturing his brother, he realized that Robb’s face had gone pale, a trickle of blood running red through a layer of grime on his cheek—Robb’s auburn curls singed black and matted.

A jolt ran through Jon’s spine at the image.

_B for bomb…_

The air rushed from his lungs as he stifled the swell of a sob.

_Robb…_

And it was then that Jon began to shake once more, the pull of his lips trembling with his every ragged breath; his growing distress soon giving way to a new thought entirely, this one far more painful in nature—its emergence cutting cleanly through the cloud of Jon’s despair, and leaving the bitter sink of loathsome acceptance churning in its wake.

_It’s my fault._

And once these new words had materialized, they grew louder in strength—echoing loudly through Jon’s head—their call ebbing and flowing on a rhythmic current of throbbing grief as fresh tears began to fall.

***

The next morning, Jon woke suddenly from the heat of a fitful slumber—his mouth dry and his shoulders sore.

And now, sitting in much the same position as he had been the night before, Jon looked down, regarding the sight of the brand with mild disgust.

The mark was leathery and waxen—raised red and blistered against the pale of Jon’s surrounding skin. And while Jon vaguely registered its permanence, he didn’t find that it made much of a difference to him—initial disinterest born loosely from the slide of weary acceptance.

_It’s happened. It’s done._

After all, Jon reckoned, he had collected scars and scrapes in the past—lasting reminders of specific moments in his life. And in many respects, this was no different.

But the nausea of Jon’s complacency was short-lived. For the more he stared down at this mark—this brand—the more he grew uneasy. And he soon understood that this shift was, in part, due to the burgeoning feeling that this wound was somehow different—not because of its shape or origin, or even because of the intrinsic cruelty of its creation—but instead because it almost seemed familiar, as if it existed beyond timelessness—as if he’d always had it.

Jon shut his eyes softly then, and rested his head back against the wall, staying as such for a good while. But whether fifteen minutes or several hours had passed by the time Jon’s eyes reopened, he couldn’t say. For permanence meant so little in this room—each second stretched out into an eternity; every new moment just as _permanent_ as the last.

***

A week had passed since Jon had been strapped to Ramsay’s table; endured the biting sear of ownership pressed hot into his skin. And save for the blanket and intermittent dressings for the burn, Jon had been left bare all the while—the brand too low on his hip to allow the cover of clothing.

Jon accepted such nakedness with bitter concession—scooting legs and rearranging limbs whenever the door at the end of the room was opened, so as to grant himself some small amount of privacy from Ramsay’s probing eyes.

Though since the branding, the silhouette that emerged from the darkness of the hallway had less and less belonged exclusively to Ramsay, but instead more often to Grunt or Skinner—plates and cups balanced in their arms respectively. Stepping from the alcove, they would offer Jon his meal and clean his wound, in Skinner’s case amidst a steady stream of verbal harassment, and in Grunt’s case, amidst abject silence. Though for Jon’s part, he remained stoic regardless of whose hand fed him—swallowing the food with measured bites and draining the cups quickly of their liquid.

At first, Jon didn’t think much of this change. Though as time went on, he found that Ramsay’s absence left him feeling decidedly unsettled; worried that it might be indicative of something more sinister. And while generally, this anxiety gnawed vaguely at Jon’s waking thoughts, within the context of his other woes, it only registered hazily—corroding the edges of his unease with tepid clout.

But to Jon’s mild relief, it was in fact Ramsay who showed this morning—spurring the murmur of Jon’s now obligatory question.

“My brother?” he asked, guilt churning in his belly as the footsteps approached—Jon’s voice dry from disuse.

And as expected, the question earned Jon an amused chuckle from Ramsay, who paused to kneel by Jon’s side before offering up an answer.

“Nothing’s changed, I’m afraid,” Ramsay said, words ringing chipper as he undid Jon’s binds. “Still asleep.”

At the answer, Jon let out a rush of air and nodded, his eyes blank with dull relief.

_He’s still alive._

“Now, let’s have a look.” Ramsay hoisted Jon up then, bending down to survey Jon’s burn. And idly, Jon found himself looking down too.

The blisters had largely broken over the past several days Jon realized, giving way instead to the blushing shine of healing skin. And as Ramsay wordlessly took note of such changes, his fingers floated lightly over the more fevered bits, pressing down in places that caused Jon to stifle a wince or two. 

These attentions went on for almost a minute—silent save for a few stilted gasps hissing through Jon’s teeth. But when finally Ramsay seemed satisfied with his appraisal, he straightened up once more. 

“It’s healing well, bastard,” he declared.

Jon said nothing.

“So let’s keep it that way, hmm?” Ramsay continued, guiding Jon then to the toilet and setting him down on the closed lid.

It was cold and smooth against Jon’s skin, his balls resting flush atop the white porcelain. So with a mild noise of discomfort, Jon shifted, lifting his hips ever so slightly before turning to Ramsay for instruction.

The man was busy at the sink, and Jon watched as Ramsay washed his hands and dampened a cloth with a mixture of saline.

“Lean back,” Ramsay tutted then.

And so Jon did, hands clutched to the toilet’s basin and elbows straightening as he angled the flat of his belly forward.

Ramsay nodded his approval and then pressed the moistened rag to Jon’s burn. And at the pressure, Jon held in a breath, his eyes shut tightly as he began to count in his head—anything for a distraction.

_One, two, three…_

When Jon had reached number 36, Ramsay suddenly removed the cloth, pulling ragged bits of broken skin along with its retreat.

Jon bit his tongue and bounced his knee all the while, in a full-bodied attempt to keep quiet. And so he sat patiently as Ramsay applied several different salves and ointments, eventually leaving Jon’s skin glistening in the fluorescent light of the lone bulb.

When this was finished, and with his wound now drying in the open air, Jon gestured a hand to the seat below him, asking wordlessly for Ramsay’s permission—pride, as learned, swallowed for the sake of basic care.

And then, following a nod from Ramsay, Jon moved slowly to a stand, muscles creaking as he raised both lids and positioned himself before the toilet—shrugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders before dropping his hands to his front.

Jon took his cock limply, pressing a thumb gently to its base and deftly angling its tip. He stared forward at the wall then, breathing slowly as his stream began to flow, aware all the while of Ramsay’s eyes on the back of his neck.

When he had finished, Jon shook free the final drops and let go, bending down to close the lids and turning again to face Ramsay—blanket pulled taut as cover.

Ramsay met Jon’s stare with a leering grin. “You’re very well-behaved you know,” he said. “Well- _trained_.”

Jon’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press the matter.

All the same, Ramsay elaborated. “The lid,” he said, jerking his head to the toilet as if to clarify. “You always remember to put it down—quite the gentleman!” Ramsay laughed with a clap of his hands.

Jon swallowed a frown, put off by the voiced observation of such thoughtless habit. But when he reflected on Ramsay’s statement, Jon supposed the man was right.

_Aye… otherwise Ygritte said she’d have my balls on a plate…_

But such threats were no longer amusing within the context of Jon’s current situation, and with the sink of that revelation, Jon found his stomach dropping—his hand moving intuitively to cup himself. He hoped Ramsay didn’t notice.

Though thankfully, Jon’s unease didn’t last long, as Ramsay soon spoke again, leaving Jon glad, for once, to have the pull of guided direction.

“You must be hungry,” Ramsay said then, lifting the steaming bowl of broth from the floor.

And with the well-mannered motions of practiced compliance, Jon nodded and thanked Ramsay in a husked whisper, reaching out to take the dish from Ramsay’s hands. He raised it to his face then, pursing his lips at the bowl’s rim and slurping down the soup in several hearty gulps.

And with veiled scorn, Jon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before passing the empty bowl to Ramsay in exchange for the drink.

The first time Jon had been offered sustenance since the branding, he had tried meekly to refuse. But following a strain of whispered threats and the frigid hold of Ramsay’s glare, Jon had folded to Ramsay’s whim, drinking the water and downing the gruel listlessly; doing whatever it might take to assure the protection of those he loved.

And so it was with this same tired tolerance that Jon took the offered cup, draining it swiftly of its swill. But as the liquid slid down his throat, he registered vaguely that today’s drink was slightly unusual—some dark juice of some sort or another. It tasted bitter in his mouth and stained his tongue, but he drank it all the same.

When Jon lowered the glass, it was to the sight of Ramsay’s eager stare—the man’s pale lips pulled flat and mealy around a row of tight-knit teeth.

“Good,” he said, taking the cup from Jon and throwing an arm in gesture back towards the wall. “Now, back to your station.”

So with a deep breath, Jon nodded and stepped to, crossing the room in a few short strides and sliding then down the wall.

As he settled on the floor, Jon moved quickly to pull the blanket into place, hoping to grant himself some subtle shred of modesty before Ramsay could tie his arms back in place. 

Though Jon knew well that the man would likely undo any progress he made—for each day before, the corners of the blanket would always manage to fall aside during Jon’s binding. And while Jon held no pretense that this slip was accidental, he continued his meager efforts all the same, if for no other reason than to preserve some thin shroud of agency.

But today, the blanket did not shift—left instead as adequate cover for Jon’s privacy. And again, like with the unexpected addition of the juice, this change, as minor as it was, left Jon feeling slightly curious. For he knew that, wherever Ramsay was concerned, this room held rigid routine—routine that Ramsay didn’t break lightly.

With this in mind, Jon eyed Ramsay closely, watching as the man wordlessly guided Jon’s hands into their shackles—Jon’s shoulders settling expectantly (and immediately) into the steady throb of aching discomfort. 

But aside from the wide smile that had yet to fade from Ramsay’s face, Jon couldn’t place anything about his captor that appeared out of the ordinary. And so he tamped down his worry, hanging his head submissively to the ground.

“Until next time,” Ramsay chortled—clapping a hand to Jon’s shoulders before turning on heel, his footsteps disappearing with a flourish.

Jon didn’t look up.

***

Fifteen minutes later, Jon’s head felt slightly clouded; his skin flushed. He found himself vaguely considering sleep, but was surprised when the door at the end of the hallway opened once more.

And Jon was surprised all the more when Ramsay emerged, wheeling in a metal cart—a thick, black television resting on its surface, its frame bulky and plastic like the electronics of old.

Jon’s brows knitted at the sight.

“I know you’ve been _grumpy_ since you’ve been put back on the wall,” Ramsay called amidst a mocking frown, his voice loud enough to carry over the squeaking grind of the cart’s wheels. “So I had a thought on your problem,” he said giddily. “You’re a man; you get restless… _bored_.” Ramsay pushed forward, stopping only when the television was a mere five feet from Jon. “But!” Ramsay grinned then, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve got a solution! One that will… _pull_ you out of your gloom—so to speak.”

Jon swallowed uncomfortably, eyes blackening as he waited for Ramsay to continue. 

But when, rather than speaking further, Ramsay instead dropped to a crouch at Jon’s front, Jon found himself even more unsettled than he had been just a moment before.

Still, as the men faced each other, Jon met Ramsay’s gaze. “A television?” he asked slowly—words bowing heavy in the air.

“Yes,” Ramsay answered, blue eyes alight. “But that’s not all!” And in a flash, Ramsay had grabbed hold of Jon’s thighs, leaning forward and pulling to cant Jon’s hips towards him.

At the suddenness of such handling, Jon cried out—a rough noise of guttural surprise, its sound tight from shock and anger—as Ramsay pushed aside the blanket and settled Jon’s legs splayed astride his folded knees.

And only then, with Jon’s lower half exposed and angled, did Ramsay continue. “I’ve given you a little treat,” he said smugly, beginning to rub an open palm flat against Jon’s stomach, careful to avoid the sticky slick of the burn.

For his part, Jon’s heart hammered helplessly in his chest as he watched the horrid progress of Ramsay’s fingers, trailing as they were through the light hairs spattered beneath Jon’s navel—his arms stretched stiff and immobile at his back.

“Something in your drink—something to stir your blood!”

Jon shook his head, trying to process the words, yet thoroughly distracted by the hands, which held him—fingers now feathering loosely along the naked swell of Jon’s cock. He shuddered—saliva collecting thick on his tongue.

“I— _what?_ ” Jon managed between the suck of a deflating groan—his thighs shaking as he fought to keep himself still, lest he stir the fruition of Ramsay’s wrath.

And as if in answer, Ramsay flattened his hand, spreading his fingers possessively—covering the soft slope of Jon’s vulnerable prick. “Well,” he laughed with a shrug of his shoulders, “it’s no secret that smoking makes men impotent. And _you_ ,” he pointed to Jon’s chest with his other hand, “ _you_ were quite the smoker!”

But Jon had little time to understand these words; for it was just then that Ramsay began to pull on Jon’s cock—rolling back the foreskin to palm firmly at its length, the strokes gradually increasing into a forceful, steady rhythm. 

The sudden beat left Jon’s mouth falling open—brows rising and cheeks flushing at the heat of the touch. And were Jon more clear of mind, he might have been able to register shock rather than horror, at the speed with which his member stirred—as if he were once more a green boy pouring over the magazines in Theon’s room. But as it was, he merely began to pant—heartbeat pounding in his chest as the restless ache of growing arousal churned in his gut.

_Gods…_

“And what good is the television if you aren’t able to… _rise_ to the occasion?” Ramsay leered.

Though for Jon, the words drifted vaguely through his consciousness, as it was only a matter of hazy seconds before he found himself fully roused—his cock now resting hot and heavy in Ramsay’s long fingers.

Looking down, the sight made Jon angry—his ire soon enveloping the fog of his confusion. But after another several pumps, Jon felt this feeling transform instead into one of deep shame, settling dense and fevered alongside the throb of his desire.

And as if in answer, just then, Ramsay swirled a thumb around Jon’s glans, brushing at its slit and causing Jon to let out a gasp—his eyes clamped shut and his toes now twisting.

_Drugged—he’s drugged me…_

Jon drew in another sharp breath—his body responding strongly and swiftly to Ramsay’s hand. But whether such heated reaction was due to swallowed pill or base depravity, Jon couldn’t say—a reality that only caused his shame to thicken. For all Jon knew in this moment was that despite the lasting strength of his fraying resistance, the lack of willful consent, and the fullness of Jon’s righteous anger, Ramsay’s hand felt _good_ on his cock.

And all too soon, it felt _too_ good. Until Jon realized, much to his dismay, that in just a moment he would—he _would_ —

But Ramsay seemed to know too, for the man’s hand stopped at just the right time, gripping tight around the base of Jon’s throbbing member—his grip effectively damming the completion of Jon’s stolen pleasure, causing Jon to groan out against his will.

Ramsay clucked his tongue as Jon slumped forward. “Not just yet, bastard. You have to be patient!”

And with that, Ramsay let go, moving back—the sudden shift causing Jon’s cock to fall, red and swollen, against the flat of his own bare thigh. But it didn’t rest as such for long, as almost immediately, Jon scooted back against the wall, furling his knees to his chest while Ramsay, meanwhile, turned his attentions to the television.

Sucking air into his lungs, Jon watched then as Ramsay plugged a chord into a nearby outlet before beginning to push buttons—fiddling with the disc box, which rested just beneath the heavy TV. And after several seconds of such ministrations, a green light went on, and with it, the sudden pop of life to the screen, a line of blue static snapping directly into the flash of a pornographic scene—its action already well underway.

On the television now lay a man and a woman—the man’s dark hair rocking fervently between the open legs of the woman, who writhed and moaned eagerly beneath his tongue—her red hair splayed on the pillow. Her limbs were likewise long and pale, stretched as they were above her head—her back arching into her partner’s touch.

At the sight, Jon took a deep breath and shut his eyes, the woman’s breathy cries ringing in his ears as he desperately tried to recompose himself from the heat of his pained humiliation—his balls full and aching.

But his collectedness was short-lived.

“I want you to watch,” Ramsay said then, voice sharp. “This is a _gift_.”

And knowing full well the price of disobedience, Jon reluctantly opened his eyes, looking again.

But while Jon had expected the renewed spectacle to color his cheeks and further stoke his desire, he found himself surprised when the sight first caused him to stifle the bitter husk of an exhausted laugh—its heat born of despairing appreciation. For though the actors in this film had unfamiliar faces, the similarities of their appearances were not lost on Jon in this moment— _a ginger woman and a man, black of hair_ —understanding the likeliness of such a scene’s careful selection.

“I expect you to enjoy this,” Ramsay smiled, as if reading Jon’s thoughts. “And just to make sure, I’ll be back to check on you.”

And as Ramsay walked away, it settled for Jon then, amidst the thick weight of his dreadful arousal, the fullness of Ramsay’s intent with this particular game—cultivating, as it would, in the prolonged and observed stretch of Jon’s shamed lust.

And by some cruel absoluteness, with the doors now closed, the cries from the film seemed even louder—left, as Jon was, the sole witness to such display. So sitting here, there was nothing Jon could do save watch. For, try as he might to ignore it, the moans and whimpers were far too much for Jon’s heated blood to shut out—pulling lewdly at the pit of his stomach.

In any other situation, he would take the matter into his own hands, wringing out a quick finish in but a matter of seconds. But with his hands tied back as they were, Jon was helpless. It made Jon angry—angry at his body’s eager response and angrier still at Ramsay’s torment. For bound like this, any progress towards relief was contingent not only on Ramsay’s presence, but also on his hand.

_His permission…_

Jon sneered bitterly at the thought, realizing to some mild acceptance, that in this respect, his current predicament was no different from any other he had suffered over the past many weeks—each comfort his body had taken likewise relying on the man who held him captive.

But all the same, Jon let out a frustrated groan, its sound rolling deep from the back of his throat. Though the growl did not last long, as suddenly, the woman in the video began moaning through the crest of her climax—her mewls growing in both their pitch and strength—ultimately sapping Jon of his fury.

And unable to look away, Jon bit his lip and bounced his knee restlessly, trying fiercely to quell the intensity of his reaction. But when the woman’s cries had dulled and she then flipped over, sinking down on the man’s shaft in one fluid movement, Jon was lost—powerlessly captivated as a bound and blushing observer.

Jon watched as the woman rode her partner, certain moves and sounds stoking his memory—the way she braced herself, pressing long fingers into the pale skin of the man’s chest, or the way the bones of her collar stuck out as she threw her head back in pleasure—he couldn’t help but be reminded of Ygritte. And the more he saw, the more he remembered the heat of Ygritte’s mouth and the wetness of her cunt.

And after ten more minutes of this—enduring the sounds and sights of wet flesh against flesh—Jon found himself nothing more than a sweating mess; his hair stuck to his brow in several thick strands and his cock straining straight and rigid before him, a steady drool of liquid seeping from its tip.

_Seven h—_

The woman cried out again, beginning to writhe her hips with increased fervor.

_—Seven hells…_

For a moment, Jon thought he might finish then and there—just like this. And even without the pull of a hand, in such a frenzied state, Jon half-reckoned that the resulting relief would be well worth the shame.

But such was not the case, for as if on cue, the door reopened then, announcing Ramsay’s timely return.

“Would you like some help?” Ramsay called, advancing slowly—the click of his heeled boots echoing ominously against the walls of the small room.

But Jon didn’t answer—his face contorting into an agonized grimace, brows upturned and lips buckling as he turned away.

Still, Ramsay was unswayed, finishing his approach in several, clipping steps. He knelt down again before Jon then, settling his hands to Jon’s knees and prying them gently apart—Jon’s cock jerking, pink and swollen, in involuntary answer.

“Hmmm,” Ramsay said, staring down with a smile. “Always so… _keen_. We may not have needed those pills after all!”

Jon mewled quietly then, the noise harrowed in the desperation of force, and looked to the ceiling—as if its cracks and crevices might offer some escape.

But the return of Ramsay’s hand shattered such hopes; Jon’s cock resting once more in the pale hold of his captor’s fingers.

Ramsay began to wave it back and forth then, as though in some taunting display. “You like this,” he said, his hand stilling. And only after Ramsay’s other hand had reached out to angle Jon’s chin, directing his stare down between his legs, did Ramsay continue. “ _Jon Snow_ —bastard boy with bastard blood and a bastard’s prick.”

And looking down at his own reddened cock clutched tight in Ramsay’s hand, Jon supposed, through the distant sting of Ramsay’s words, that he should have expected this. After all, Ramsay had stroked him before— _finished him off_. But all the same, expectation did little service when it came to the present anguish of such humiliation. And as it was, currently, Jon wanted to crawl out of his skin.

But of course, his wants mattered little here, and so instead Jon sat still, dignity and energy properly drained—now nothing more than a pliant victim to the development of Ramsay’s abuse.

“Show me just how much you like it,” Ramsay whispered then, his hand beginning to move up and down, _up and down_.

These renewed strokes made Jon’s belly lurch, the mark of the brand bobbing on its stuttering rise and swell as he gasped and squirmed. And as the speed of Ramsay’s pulls grew faster, so did the nearing approach of Jon’s end.

Ramsay tugged tighter and quicker, moving his hand from root to tip and slickening the length of Jon’s shaft with every pump anew.

And before long, Jon couldn’t hold back anymore—letting out a drawn and graveled moan as he spurted his load in several twitching bursts of white, which splashed to the floor in labored blasts of thick strings—his hips drawing back from the force of its release.

And with his cock still held firm in Ramsay’s sticky fist, Jon felt his breath return to normal after a minute’s time—the bitter shame of his debasement filling the emptiness where his arousal had been curdling; Jon’s only true relief drawn from the belief that it this would be over now—that Ramsay would turn off the television and leave him be.

But Jon soon found himself sorely disappointed—heart sinking as Ramsay began to stroke him again. And while at first, the touches elicited little more than the rush of whimpered hisses, all of the sudden, on the swell of a particularly long pull, Jon’s blood began to stir once more.

As a result, Jon stared down with confusion, mouth agape and eyes wet at the suddenness of such sensation. But all too quickly he remembered the drink and its effects—this reminded reality prompting a newfound swallow of agitated acceptance.

For in a matter of minutes, Jon was just as hard as he had been before—harder even—the sounds of the video only now coming to a slow.

“Now,” Ramsay grinned—his touches pausing as the credits began to roll, “That first one was also a gift—I was feeling generous… but the next one won’t be as quick—you have to learn composure,” Ramsay said, speaking slowly as if choosing his words carefully. “After all, too much… _impulse_ … isn’t good for a man.” And he moved back then, rising to a stand and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket—wiping his fingers as he stared intently at Jon.

Jon, for his part, hung his head, chest heaving as he tucked his legs again to his body, listening as Ramsay turned back to the television where he began to hit buttons—tapping plastic until the cheap slide of electric guitar riffs sounded once more from the speakers, the video beginning anew.

“I have some errands to run, but not to worry, bastard—you won’t be left alone for too long.” And with that Ramsay disappeared again.

So Jon sat still and trembling, recoiling in disgust when he realized that his toes had slid through the splattered results of his release, silver and shining on the cement floor. He rested his head against the wall then; forehead creased, and listened again to the sounds of the video.

And as time passed, to Jon’s growing exhaustion, his arousal didn’t ebb at all, leaving his nerves frayed and his skin feverish—hostage to the cravings of his own flesh. For indeed, as each minute melted into the next, Jon became increasingly more frustrated and breathless, a shaking wreck of aching thirst as the film continued.

At one point, it crossed Jon’s mind that he might be able to rub himself off between his thighs, if only to get some brief relief. But the idea didn’t last, for even amidst such flushing madness, Jon still found himself unable to bear the thought of yielding willingly to Ramsay’s game.

And so he sat.

That is, until the film ended and the room’s door reopened. But this time, to Jon’s displeasure, it was Grunt who entered.

Wordlessly, the tall man walked to the TV, restarting the film before turning to face Jon, closing the distance between them in two long strides, and falling awkwardly to his knees.

Grunt took Jon in hand then, and began to jerk him mechanically—the motions careful and measured. Ordinarily, the stiffness of his strokes might have put Jon off, but as it was now, a hand was a hand.

Grunt pumped rhythmically, until Jon began to twist and fidget—his breath hitching, a clear marker for the threat of his impending finish.

And so Grunt stopped then, wiping his hand silently on his jeans and returning to his feet. But he paused for just a moment before leaving—staring down at Jon with the grim sneer of loathsome pity.

For his part, Jon stared back—teeth bared and eyes flashing—anger the last resort of pride. But it didn’t matter in the end, as soon enough, Grunt looked away and renewed his departure. 

Jon watched him go.

And so then, alone, Jon sat once more—nearly out of his mind, his cock thick and his balls still painfully heavy.

***

After the film finished for its third time, Skinner appeared.

“’Ello!” he said cheerily, loping into the room and turning to the television. He began to fiddle with its controls. “Now,” he pressed another button, “what’ve we got here?”

And when the film once more began to play, Skinner grunted approvingly and leaned back, arms crossed and eyes hungry. And so like this, both men stayed in silence.

But to Jon’s weary irritation, Skinner soon broke it with a whistle. “Check out the tits on that one,” he said, grinning. “Though—I s’pose ya’ve seen ‘em.” And as if only just remembering, Skinner looked down then, noticing Jon’s condition for the first time—his brows rising with amusement. “Right—” he laughed. “Course you ‘ave! Gods, there mustn’t be any blood left in yer head!”

Jon scowled.

“Alright, alright—don’t get mad. Anyways, I’m s’posed to help you out with that,” he said, pointing to Jon’s leaking member. “Just don’t get too carried away.”

Skinner knelt down then, rubbing his hands together as if in greedy anticipation as he looked to Jon’s prick. “It ain’t the biggest knob I seen,” he started, speaking definitively, “but it’s not bad,” he said, shrugging then with a mild air of apology.

At the words, Jon’s face blanched briefly with indignation, but his expression soon softened into the anxious fold of apprehension—watching then as Skinner spat a glob of saliva into the palm of his leathery hand.

“Right,” Skinner said next, reaching out to wrap his fingers round Jon’s cock, spreading the moisture along his shaft before thumbing clumsily at Jon’s glans.

But clumsy or not, the enveloping dampness of Skinner’s hand sent Jon’s eyes rolling back in his head, and he let out a hoarse grunt in response—his head thudding hard against the stones.

And so, as if spurred on by Jon’s reaction, Skinner repeated the motion—slipping the wet of his palm along Jon’s length with increased fervor, each new pull culminating in several circling caresses to the round of Jon’s seeping tip.

And it was thus that the immediacy of Jon’s climax caught both men off-guard—Skinner’s thumb coaxing a thick flood of white beading and driveling from the head of Jon’s shaft.

“Fuck!” Skinner cried as Jon gasped. “You wasn’t s’posed to come jus’ like that—that wasn’t even—“ he licked his lips in panic, throwing his hands up, “—you were s’posed to wait, Jonny!”

But Jon was too strung out to care one way or another—his lungs still heaving as his cock pulsed helplessly in the air.

Skinner stood then, running his hands through his hair, unwittingly leaving several sticky strings of silver matting in his thin, mousy strands. “Errrr,” he muttered, beginning to pace. And then, as if hit with sudden inspiration, he shuffled back towards the television, where he began to rewind the film, stopping just before the woman rose to straddle her partner. He turned up the volume.

Jon meanwhile, was staring at his lap, his thighs tense and his cock, much to Jon’s horror, still stirring weakly with life.

_Gods… it just keeps going._

And so the nightmare continued—the heightened moans from the film serving their desired purpose so that Jon, for the third time in the span of two hours, soon found himself, once again, painfully hard—the revival of such a state quickly obvious, much to Skinner’s apparent relief.

For the man had been watching attentively the entire time, chewing anxiously on his nails, their ends already long since gnawed raw and torn. But as such, it was only a matter of time before Jon had started once more to fidget—his cock now fully fat and flushed. 

At the sight, Skinner nodded, letting out another slow whistle. “So that stuff really works, huh?” He paused, scratching his chin before cracking his face into a snaggle-toothed grin. “Might have to get me some of it!”

Jon slowly closed his eyes at the words, the ball in his throat bobbing on the force of a strained swallow.

“Well…” Skinner began then, speaking amidst the sounds of awkward shuffling, “… good luck,” he finished weakly.

And with that, his footsteps quickly withdrew, the close of the door leaving Jon alone once more.

***

A half hour later, Jon sat in much the same condition, watching the credits to the film flash blue and orange on the screen.

And while before, Jon had still harbored some last-ditched pockets of flared indignance, by now, his anger had all but dissipated, leaving him simply exhausted—wanting nothing more than for all this to be over.

Such that, when the door reopened and Ramsay entered, Jon found himself almost crying out in relief—the feeling lasting only as long as it took for Ramsay’s wordless touch to return.

For then, another delirious rush of carnal pleasure rushed thick to Jon’s gut—a refreshed wave of shame simultaneously heating at his cheeks; shame that deep down, Jon was no longer resisting as he once had.

But a twist of Ramsay’s wrist soon pulled Jon from the reprieve of his self-pity, wrenching a hollow sob from deep within his chest. And with another few deft strokes, Jon was choking out the only words he could think to say.

“Why—wh—“ Jon gritted out another moan, his hair wild and his hips jerking, “what do you _want_?” he pleaded then. “What do you want me to do?”

A beat of silence sounded before Ramsay hummed in answer, increasing the speed of his hand and then letting go altogether, grinning as if he’d been waiting all this time for Jon to simply ask. He leaned in closer, angling his chin so that Jon could feel Ramsay’s breath hot in his ear.

“You are—” Ramsay said, lowering his hand to caress Jon’s purpled balls—rolling each one in the clever clutch of fingers before beginning to massage their weight in lecherous unison, “— _perfect_ just like this,” he hissed, his words accompanied by a gentle, concluding squeeze.

And then, with eyes clamped shut, Jon spilled for a final time with a low whine scraping thin behind bared teeth, its gritted burr increasingly desperate as his cock sprayed and twitched in the air, spattering its watery load white across the angry red of his brand.

“There’s a good boy,” Ramsay chuckled, his fingers still tickling at Jon’s sac until Jon, mercifully, began to soften—his cock now lying slick and tender between his legs.

All the same, Ramsay pumped him a few more times for good measure before rising to a stand—Jon, for his part, still wriggling in his binds, the metal of his cuffs scraping raw the skin of his wrists.

And so spent, it was then that Jon softly began to weep, Ramsay meanwhile attending to the television. And when the chords were properly wrapped up and the lights turned off, Ramsay returned to stand over Jon. “I have another surprise for you,” he said as Jon sniffled. “Though this one is… _more complicated_ ,” Ramsay laughed. “But I think you’re ready.”

So in answer, Jon looked up—red-eyed and bleary as he blinked back new tears, dreading wholly whatever Ramsay might next have in store.

But whatever it was would have to wait, for Ramsay suddenly turned his back, grabbing hold of the television cart and beginning to wheel it loudly towards the door. “I’ll see you tonight, bastard!” Ramsay called then, over the metal squeal of the wheels—the echo of his voice clipped short by the heavy slam of the metal door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to half-life. Always always. And Hawkens and Westfelled too. 
> 
> Shout out also to crippling anxiety and the untimely arrival of my period.
> 
> x


End file.
